


What Is, And What Can Never Be

by AngelsOfMercy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Proposal, Angst, Awkward Conversations, F/M, Fix-It, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Pining, Post Episode: s08e05 The Bells, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reunions, Romantic Angst, Romantic Tension, Sansa is a good friend, Unplanned Pregnancy, canon divergence - 805, mentions of past Jaime/Cersei, of sorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2020-03-09 10:20:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 95,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18914992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelsOfMercy/pseuds/AngelsOfMercy
Summary: What is a soulmate?Some people think a soulmate is your perfect fit, a mirrored reflection of themselves. The truth couldn't be more different. A soulmate is someone who holds the mirror up to you, who shows you everything that is holding you back and inspires you to change, to become who you were always meant to be. The best version of you. A soulmate is someone who sees you for your true self, the good and the bad parts of your soul, and still loves you completely. No matter what happens in life, how they might be separated, soulmates will always find their way back to one another.Here is the story of how two pairs of soulmates are reunited, despite all the obstacles in their path.-------------Post season 8 fix-it.





	1. Tyrion

 

 

Tyrion sighed a breath of relief as he was led to the impressive camp just outside the Red Keep’s walls, making note of all the sigil banners flying in the sky. While they were primarily Stark men, he spotted the odd banners belonging to Houses Arryn, Tully, Tarly and Greyjoy. Even the sunburst of House Martell was positioned here and there. No Lannister banners of course, what need have they to save the twisted demon monkey, the Imp, the _dwarf_ , that brought Fire and Blood among the loyal men of Lannisport? And not just Lannisport, oh no. At night his dreams were haunted by the shrieks of men, women and children burning. By day, he heard it echoing in his makeshift cell in the Keep. He could still smell it too. The sweet decay of roasting meat. Who cleaned away the bodies, he wondered? Who hid the horrible truth from the eyes of the valiant Lords here to save their one-time King? He didn’t think the Unsullied or Dothraki would have taken such care. To them, the bodies were a sign of victory. Perhaps it was the Northmen who cleared them away? _After all, it’s hard to expect others to support a King who took part in mass genocide,_ he thought, _no matter how unwillingly._

 

He wasn’t their King anymore though. That title now belonged to his brother. No, _cousin_ , he corrected. His thoughts flittered again, thinking back on memories of simpler days, days where all he wanted was to hear the truth of what happened to that little crippled boy of ten, of trying to make recompense for a sin that wasn’t his to atone for. _On horseback you’ll be as tall as any of them._ Days from before his forced marriage to the boy’s sister, days before that boy could see into his very soul, and still judge him worthy to live. Who would have thought that crippled boy, Bran the Broken, would rise to the heights of King? That he would rise higher than any other Lord in the realm. But it made him question, how omniscient was this new Bran? When he looked into his eyes, no, his very soul, when he looked at Tyrion and judged him worthy, how much did he truly _see?_ Did he merely see the soul of the person, or their entire life, every memory sharp and vivid as if he experienced it his very self? It made Tyrion uneasy. There were certain secrets that best remained hidden, too dangerous to think of, let alone speak of. His thoughts tried to return him to a room filled with dust and rubble, a room where the only sounds he could hear were shallow breathing and the thundering of his very own heart in his ears.

 

Before Tyrion could dwell further on thoughts he was trying to avoid, he was shown a small tent by the guards. _Good positioning,_ he thought. _I couldn’t escape from here even if I wanted to, not with so many friends surrounding my every direction._ Despite the modest size of the tent compared to ones a short distance from his, it was nicely furnished. Someone had taken the time to place a bear-skin rug on the cold ground by the cot, which was also covered in thick looking furs. There was fresh water in a jug near a shard of mirror, with a bowl, a scrap of cloth and a clump of what he presumed was soap resting against them atop a side table. There was also a meal of cheese, a crust of bread and a haunch of roasted chicken sitting on a round dining table accompanied with a small jug of what he hoped was wine left to breathe and two iron goblets. Walking towards the jug, he peered down at its deep red contents. _Thank the Gods,_ he thought. _Finally, some wine._ All things considered, this tent was a vast improvement to his previous accommodations. He wondered what he had done to receive these luxuries during such tumultuous times. A part of Tyrion felt guilty, sitting in comfortable conditions while Jon Snow was no doubt still suffering in a less than stellar cell in the Red Keep. And that’s when it hit him. _Jon Snow._ There could only be one answer. Clearly, this tent had been meant for another, and instead of wasting it when they didn’t receive the prisoner they truly wished to free, they had decided to rehome it to the Imp instead.

 

Bypassing the food, his stomach still unsettled and twisting from his previous musings on his way through the camp, Tyrion’s first stop inside the tent once his guards left him was towards the shard of mirror and jug of water left out to him. Looking into the shard, he was shocked at the face that peered back. _When did I get so old?_ He wondered. The once proud if misshapen lion that he was in his youth no longer looked back at him, instead all he could see in that face was a stranger with sad eyes. _Who am I now, without my family? I am the last, despite it all, despite everything, I am the last of us remaining in this Gods forsaken place._ He didn’t like to brood on such thoughts, and placing the mirror upside down, his face hidden from his view, he started his task of cleaning himself, raising his sleeves and running his hands up and down his beard. _Something_ _will_ _have_ _to_ _be_ _done_ _about_ _this,_ he thought, but not today. Today he needed answers, he needed to make plans. The world was changing, and he was damned if he was going to be as naïve as the last time he served the whims of a ruler. This time, he was going to do things right. They had to, they all had to, otherwise what was all the suffering worth?

 

It wasn’t long before she joined him in his tent. Her scent reached his nose before the sight of her reached his eyes. She smelt citrusy, of lemons, just as she had as a child when she was still his bride. Just as she had when he sat next to her in the crypts, as he kissed her hand and begging her with his eyes to trust he would give his life for hers before letting the dead take her. Nothing had ever smelt so good to him, in this place still reeking of death. Distantly, he was again struck by the beauty this child had grown into. She was far from the girl he once knew, Joffrey’s little plaything to torture. _There is much of her mother in her, but this girl is far more Northern than anyone could have ever surmised._ _No wonder she outlived so many._ Tearing his eyes from her before he could be accused of staring, he continued to scrub at the dirt and ash embedded under his fingernails. He made sure to address her briefly, respectfully. Distantly.

 

“Is there something I can do for you, Lady Stark?”

 

She paused, he could feel her eyes examining him for several seconds before continuing on further into the room, gently placing herself into the chair wedged beneath his dining table. “You can dispense with the formalities, Tyrion. The last time we were in this city, you were still my Lord Husband. In the privacy this tent affords us, I’d like us to speak openly and plainly. Are you willing to do that as well as I?” He was facing her now, judging the sincerity in her clear blue eyes. He saw no malice there, no sense of trickery. Of course, he hadn’t sensed that when she told him of the true parentage of Jon Snow either. Still, facing her fully now, he jerked his head in the affirmative.

 

“Very well, Sansa. What is it you wish to discuss with me, in the privacy of this tent you meant for your brother, and not your Imp of a former husband?” He was being cold to her and he knew it. Cold and cruel, and very underserved. He knew it, but also knew it was necessary. She would be heading North after her brother’s coronation, and he couldn’t afford to be haunted by thoughts of potential friendship, potential understanding. Thoughts of hypothetical situations that could never bear fruit.

 

Her face froze at his falsely jovial tone as his words hit her ears. Sitting with her spine straight, and her eyes surveying him coolly, she replied. “I shouldn’t have come here. I thought we had an understanding, I thought we were…” Shaking her head gently, she maintained her eye contact with him, her icy gaze piercing. “I was wrong in what I thought. I should have learnt by now that there isn’t many people you can trust in this world. Brienne of Tarth, she’s someone who can be trusted. She has been a loyal companion to me, these past few years. I owe her a debt I can never repay. Tell me, Lord Tyrion, was it a mere thoughtless jape the Kingslayer was playing on her when he broke her heart, or did he truly not care about the pain his actions wrought when he left her alone and crying in the yards of Winterfell?”

 

That pulled Tyrion up short. “You wish to discuss the maid of Tarth?” He asked, confusion evident in his tone.

 

“No. I had wanted to discuss how you were faring in the face of what your Queen did to the city you once called home. I wanted to hear of your plans as Hand of the King, of the things you wanted to change now you were serving a truly just ruler. I wanted to assure you of my support, should you have need of it.” She paused, looking down at her hands resting on the table, her voice low and quiet, almost too quiet for him to catch. “I wanted to talk to you as Sansa Stark, elder daughter of Lord and Lady Stark of Winterfell, a stupid girl who never learns her lesson until its too late, to Tyrion Lannister, the secretly kind yet caustic heir to Casterly Rock, who once rode to Winterfell to deliver a saddle to a crippled boy because he knew what it was to be looked down upon. I wanted us to talk freely, as we did only once before on the battlements.” Rising from the chair, the volume of her words increasing slightly, she continued. “But if that isn’t possible for you, I will leave you to your own thoughts.”

 

Moving quicker than he had won’t to do of late, Tyrion rested his hand over Sansa’s before she could fully vacate her chair. “That was unworthy of me, my Lady. _Sansa._ Please sit and share a glass of wine with me?” Before waiting for her reply, he began pouring her a small measure of wine. “We can discuss all that you mentioned if you wish, but I feel there is something else distressing you at this moment. Something you felt you could confide in no other. Please, have the faith to confide in me as you did once before.”

 

Sansa was quiet, taking a sip of wine before looking him in the eye and stating, “On the day that King’s Landing fell, Davos Seaworth was seen rowing away from the vicinity of the Red Keep on a skiff,” she paused, head tilting. “why do you think he did that, Tyrion? Word has reached me that he might not have been alone at the time.”

 

Tyrion stilled his hand that was pouring the wine for himself. “How would I know that? Tell me, my Lady, have you asked Davos Seaworth that question?”

 

“I have not. But it is peculiar, is it not? He was gone for some time, or so I’m led to believe.”

 

He could feel the tension in the air. Knowing he had to take care, he asked, “What is it you want to know, Sansa?”

 

“She truly loved him, Tyrion. Loves him still, in truth, despite his betrayal. I would hope he is aware of the harm he wrought in leaving her that way, the harm he does still.”

 

He didn’t need to ask who she was referring to. “Life isn’t like the songs, however much we might wish it to be. Just because he left doesn’t mean he didn’t care for her just as deeply as she did for him. My brother always had a conflicted soul.” He drank deeply from his goblet before continuing, “Duty is the death of love. He swore to protect Cersei, and he tried to do that right until her last moments. I would think he hoped she would forget him eventually, now that he’s gone.”

 

“Do you think he would have done that, left as he did, had he known the future he would be giving up in the process?” Sansa wondered.

 

He could sense Sansa’s unease by the way her eyes seemed to look past him. For all she was a woman now, there were elements of the girl in her still, if only one knew how to find them. He wondered what could be causing her such discomfort as he mulled over her words. What could have her coming to him to talk of the doomed love between his brother and the Lady of Tarth… _Please don’t let it be what I’m thinking,_ he begged. _Please don’t let the Gods be cruel enough to play such a jape on the maid of Tarth… but she isn’t a maid anymore, is she? If what you suspect is correct, that is what’s causing this problem in the first place._

 

“The time for prevaricating is over, Sansa. Tell me, and tell me true. Is Brienne of Tarth with child?” He paused a moment, bile nearly coming out his mouth before continuing, “Is it my brother’s child?”

 

He could see mild relief in her eyes at being asked the question, knowing as well as he did that he didn’t need her conformation. “I worry she is, although I fear she herself is not yet aware,” her eyes were cloudy before she continued, “you know as well as I do how she will be treated, Tyrion. It’s a cruel world for an unwed mother and their bastard child. Even crueler for the mother of the Kingslayer’s child, I would wager. She doesn’t deserve what’s in store for her, and neither does her babe. My family failed Jon as he grew up. I don’t want to fail Brienne, if she should be carrying your brother’s child.”

 

Tyrion wasn’t sure what to say, so he asked the first question that came to his mind. “How is it you come to believe this, Sansa? How could you know she is with child before her?” Sansa coloured, her lips thinning as her brow furrowed. He continued, “In the privacy this tent affords us, we agreed to speak openly and plainly. There is nothing you could say that I would willingly repeat to another soul. Share this burden with me. If she is with child, I will do all I can for her. It’s the least I can do. For her, for my brother, and for the child.”

 

 _And for you,_ his mind whispered. _After everything my family did to yours, protecting the woman you care for and cared for you is the least I can do to make recompense for those wrongs._

 

“You’re aware I am the oldest daughter to my parents?” Sansa asked quickly, continuing on before he could reply. “I barely remember when my mother was expecting Arya. My memories of her time carrying Bran are clearer, but not by much of a degree. It’s when she was bringing Rickon into the world I remember best.” A small, gentle smile graced her features as she reminisced. “She was ever so tired all the time before her belly began to swell. Her appetites changed. She had preferred savoury foods, she was very particular to fish. But one evening, the smell of blackened cod had her rushing out the room to be sick. Instead she was reaching for sweets that she hadn’t been particular about since her girlhood. She stopped visiting the room I studied in with our Septa because climbing the stairs had her feeling faint. I know the signs of a women with child, Tyrion. Trust me when I tell you I know them well, and I see them now in Brienne’s manner, even if she yet does not.”

 

Tyrion shook his head slightly to try and clear it. He hated to ask this question, but knew he had to cover all potential aspects of this situation before he could reach a possible solution. “Would she want this child, Sansa? You know her best of anyone here, save perhaps Pod. And I doubt that is a conversation any Lady wants with a man that isn’t her lover or husband. She cannot be very far along. It wouldn’t be too late for her to take tansy tea, if she wished it. Someone here must be aware of the recipe, should it be needed.”

 

He could tell the moment the words left his lips that it was the wrong suggestion to make. Sansa’s eyes turned flinty, her chin lifting defiantly.

 

“Of course, you see a problem that needs removing, no matter the cost. Men usually do.” Sansa spat, voice cold. “You remember my Aunt Lysa, don’t you, Tyrion?” She didn’t wait for him to reply before carrying on, voice harried. “Her father saw a problem that needed removing, and he gave her moon tea to do it. She didn’t know, of course. The child was Littlefinger’s you see, and you know as well as I how much she loved him. A part of me can’t help but wonder if the reason she struggled with bearing children was because of that moon tea.”

 

Tyrion wasn’t sure how to reply. Clearly there was something deeper at play here that he wasn’t aware of. “I’m not suggesting we give her the tea without her knowledge. But as you stated, the world isn’t kind to a mother whose alone, or to a child without a trueborn name. Surely she should be allowed the option to choose? And to do that, we would need to consult-”

 

“You wouldn’t need to consult anyone, Tyrion. Brienne is already aware of how to brew the tea successfully. She was at Renly’s camp, and they had many camp followers who swilled it down like sweet wine, or so she told me. If that is the option she wishes to take, all she would need is the prerequisite ingredients.”

 

Tyrion knew there was something he was missing. How would Sansa know Brienne could brew the tea successfully? He didn’t want to ask, but felt for the girl in front of him perhaps having the option to discuss this could do her some mild good.

 

“I wouldn’t judge her or anyone else for deciding to take moon tea. Childbirth is hard for women, as my own birth proved,” he looked at her paling face before he continued, “if you had reason to take moon tea, Sansa, nobody could blame you. You were married to a monster; I can’t imagine what that was like for you.”

 

“No, you cannot.” Sansa replied; voice subdued. “When I was free of Ramsay and his men at Castle Black, I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t stand the thought of bearing a child to that man. Brienne found me in the Maesters chambers, looking for something, anything to take just in case. She made me the tea the next day, and I would have taken it, but it turned out I didn’t need it after all.” Sansa confided, her eyes showing vulnerability for a moment before it was swiftly masked.

 

There was silence in the tent for several moments. Tyrion wasn’t sure what to say to her, he could think of hundreds of things but he knew none of them would be right or what the girl before him needed. He couldn’t imagine the suffering she had been through, he could only marvel that she had come out of it as strong as she was before him. Ultimately, he knew Lady Sansa wanted no words of support of pity from him. Deciding to move on, he asked a question he already suspected the answer to, interested to see if Sansa had surmised the same as himself.

 

“You don’t think that will be her choice though, to take the tea, do you, Sansa?”

 

“I do not.” Sansa took a sip of her wine before continuing. “She is the only heir of her house, and although Tarth may not be as large or as rich as other holdings, their name is old. She understands the duty all women face in carrying on their family’s legacy. Especially if they are the only one able to do so.”

 

Tyrion considered Sansa’s statement for several moments. A part of him wondered how much her statement was directed at the Lady of Tarth, and how much was directed at herself. Even so, he knew it wouldn’t do to ask her such a thing.

 

“Her father is still alive, perhaps he might go on to have more children?” Tyrion questioned instead. In truth, he didn’t know much about the Evenstar of Tarth, on account of courtly life not suiting the man. Even so, he had heard the rumours of his predilection towards women young enough to be his daughter.

 

“Unlikely I should think, given his age. I also heard that he’s in ill health. No, Brienne knows as well as anyone that a bastard heir is better than no heir at all. In spite of the ways they would be treated, I have no doubt she would do her duty and raise the child well, but she shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

 

“On that we can both agree.” Tyrion took a gulp of wine, placing the now empty goblet down gently on the table. “My brother was always a fool, but I’m sure if he had known of her condition he wouldn’t have left the Lady of Tarth to face such derision. I will need time to think on this, Sansa. To come up with the best solution I can. How long can we expect you to stay in the South?” Tyrion queried, focusing on keeping his voice even. Of all the people still in his life, he feared she would be the one he would miss the most.

 

“Once Jon is released and Bran is crowned, I’m afraid I’ll have to return to Winterfell with the rest of the troops. I cannot remain any longer than a fortnight, at best. Speaking of the troops, I need to make arrangements for when the Unsullied release Jon.” She rose from her seat, looking him squarely in the eye. “When I return, I wouldn’t object to receiving a raven from you, Tyrion. After all, with the plans you and Bran are sure to make together, I expect to hear from you often in regards to the Kingdom’s relationship with the North, and about how you fare as Hand to my brother.”

 

He rose with her, gently grasping her hand as he replied, “It would be my pleasure to write to you, my Lady. I am sure we will have much to discuss. You’ll keep me informed of your own activities in the North I hope?” Tyrion smiled as he released her hand. “You’ll make an excellent Queen, Sansa. You were around Cersei long enough to know what not to do in that position.”

 

She smiled a gentle smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “All the power in the world, and Cersei was never truly happy. She caused so much pain to so many innocents, Tyrion. But even so, while I’m not sorry for her death, I’m sorry for your loss of her and what that means for you.” Sansa said sincerely.

 

It didn’t escape his notice that she left Jaime out of her apologies.

 

“Thank you, my Lady. That means more than I can say, coming from you most of all.”

 

Tyrion watched as Sansa turned from the room, reaching the opening of the tent before twisting slightly to speak softly to him.

 

“About the tent… It was never meant for Jon. If there is anything you need, know you can find my tent close by. Please come to me if there is anything I can do to help you or make you more comfortable.” She finished before turning again to leave.

 

Tyrion was stumped. If the tent wasn’t meant for Jon, that could only mean… _she had hoped to free me alongside her brother after all._ He didn’t want to let his mind dwell on that for too long, his thoughts instead going to the main topic of conversation they had shared. The Lady of Tarth was with child… and his brothers’ child, if Sansa’s suspicions proved correct. But what did she expect him to do?

 

He was smarter than to presume her unaware of what he had done for Jaime. In a city full of dying men, it hadn’t been hard to find a man with a passing resemblance to his brother, their colouring close enough to fool an unobservant eye. It was a matter of minutes to quickly dress him in his brothers’ clothes, to shorten him by one hand. The face had been badly beaten in when he had found him, and with the rocks that had hit the bodies of his siblings… he had hoped nobody would question it. Cersei’s face being recognisable, he had counted on people presuming his brother took the blunt of the blows protecting her. As far as anyone needed to concern themselves, the Kingslayer had died the day King’s Landing fell.

 

This potential child threw a problem into the mix, however. Tyrion knew well that Jaime’s deepest regret was being unable to be a true father to their sisters’ children. Could this be a second chance for him? Could Tyrion find him, somehow, get him to return and face the consequences his actions had brought? He wasn’t sure. It didn’t escape him that this was likely the only way his House could ensure their survival. A child… he didn’t dare hope it to be true, knowing the suffering it would bring without his brother here to make things right. But even so, _I wouldn’t be alone anymore,_ Tyrion realised. The last time Tyrion had spoken to Davos before his imprisonment, his brother was still intent on his self-imposed banishment. Without Varys, he wasn’t even certain he could find Jaime before Brienne started to show. He had to make plans. He would do his best to find Jaime, but failing that… he owed it to the woman his brother had wronged to help her to the best of his abilities, even if he wasn’t sure how he would manage it. There was only one thing he could be certain of. Time was of the essence, Tyrion only hoped it would be on his side.

 


	2. Brienne

Brienne wasn’t certain how she felt about the new King. He’d been the best option out of all of them, at least she was sure about that much. Surely somebody who knew so much about their world would be able to avoid repeating the follies of King’s past? And yet... he wasn’t charismatic like Robert was reported to be in his youth, he also wouldn’t be loved by Lords, Ladies and smallfolk alike like Rhaegar reportedly had been. How could he be when he rarely showed much emotion at all? He didn’t socialise. Instead he was perfectly content to live in the past, at least that was what he told Brienne he did when he demanded solitude for hours on end within his chambers. She had thought he would be the King they would need for this new era, or at least, that was what she had hoped. All she truly knew was that the young man she was now sworn to protect unnerved her, and when she caught him looking at her more than once in that meeting, she couldn’t help but think he knew more about her than she herself was even aware of.

  
Her promotion to Kingsguard had come as a great shock, her promotion to Lord Commander even more so. It was everything she had ever dreamed of since girlhood, ever since she put away the hopes of a young Knight sweeping her off her feet and imagined herself in the place he had been. And yet… _and yet what does it matter, without the one you love to share in your joy?_ She tried not to think about him, about his smile, his laugh, his eyes especially. But sometimes in the day when she wasn’t concentrating and her mind began to wander, she could almost swear she caught a glimpse of him in the corner of her eye. He was never there when she turned to look, of course.  _The Gods are cruel,_ she thought bitterly, _to give me such joy on the back of such sorrow._

  
She was heading to the yards, her mind replaying the conversation from the meeting she had just vacated with the King, Pod, and the other new members of the Kingsguard. She still wasn’t certain what it all meant, how it would work. But she trusted the word of her King. It would help shape their Kingdoms for the better, in time. She believed that, but the truth was she had to. There had been too much death to believe in anything but peace now. To believe anything else was incomprehensible.

  
“I want to make some alterations beyond the one I already made unbarring women from joining the Kingsguard. As this new decree will affect the Kingsguard as a whole, I felt it only fair to inform the ones it would affect first beyond all others, even my Hand,” Bran stated, voice oddly monotone as he had always been since Brienne had known him.

  
“What changes, my King?” Brienne wondered, the confusion on her face also mirrored on those of her sworn brothers around her. He had already allowed the admittance of a woman into the white cloaks with her the day they named him King, what more was there to alter? 

Instead of replying in a straightforward manner, Bran levelled a question of his own to all those present in the room.

  
“Is anyone here aware of how many members of the Kingsguard had to give up their beloved upon joining the order? How much potential was wasted so that they could live a life of servitude?” He looked them over each in turn, his eyes betraying nothing of the thoughts within. “Each was a sad tale of grief and despair. Giving up one’s inheritance is surprisingly easy compared to surrendering the one you love. The most well-known tale to you all might be that of Barristan Selmy. Were any of you aware of his deepest regrets?”

  
Nobody dared respond for a moment. Brienne knew Bran had a way of knowing things that no other should know, but each time he imparted his secret knowledge it never failed to unnerve her. It seemed even death didn’t stop the Three Eyed Raven from rooting out a person’s secrets, even those of an honourable Knight long dead, just to make a point.

  
“He was betrothed before he joined the Kingsguard; I believe,” Pod uttered, his statement lilting up at the end, making it seem more like a question than the statement of fact it was intended to be.

  
“He was,” Bran agreed. “While that wasn’t his deepest regret, it was one of many that plagued him, especially towards the end of his days.”

  
“What has this to do with the changes you plan to make, my King?” Daven wondered. He was Jaime’s cousin, Brienne knew, and the most recent recruit to the steadily growing Kingsguard. Although he only bore a mild resemblance to the man she had lost, she still found it hard to gaze upon him for too long.

  
“Everything,” Bran responded clearly, his gaze lingering on Brienne before staring ahead at seemingly nothing. “From now on, members of the Kingsguard will no longer be barred from taking a wife, or a husband.” He looked again at Brienne. “While they still cannot man their lands, they can rest assured in the knowledge that their spouse will keep their inheritance safe if they so wish, until such a time that any potential children born of their union can lay claim to them and rule in their parents’ stead.”

  
There was silence for a moment. Then all seven hells erupted.

  
“That has never been-”

  
“How would that-?”

  
“We are vowed to _you_ my King, such conflict-”

  
“What about-”

  
When Bran raised his hand, all quickly went silent.

  
“What is your opinion of my decree, Lord Commander?” He questioned tonelessly.

  
Brienne wasn’t quite sure why he bothered asking, she was sure the King knew her thoughts as surely as everyone else’s in the room. She spent a few moments considering her words before settling on the safest of her questions.

  
“It has never been done before, my liege. Are you sure this is the wisest course of action?”

  
“It has never been done _here_ before, that much is true. Did you know the Dothraki allow their bloodriders to take wives and father children? Rather than causing a feeling of confliction, it actually solidifies the bonds between the Khal and his men. They are thankful to be given the chance to secure their own legacy, such as it is to the Dothraki, and they show their appreciation by protecting their ruler all the more fervently,” Bran gazed upon Pod before speaking again. “I do not make this decision lightly. It will cause conflict with some of the Lords in the Kingdom, the ones who most cling to visions of the past. But in time I’m sure everyone will realise this is the wisest course of action for our Kingdom’s future.”

  
Brienne couldn’t help herself, her question slipping out almost as if pulled from her by an invisible force.

  
“What caused you to make such a bold change to our ways, my King?” As far as she could tell, it was of no benefit to the young man sat before her. _Why would he risk such divisions to make this change?_

  
“You are all already aware that I cannot father children,” He didn’t wait for their acknowledgement of that fact before he continued. “But the truth of the matter is I cannot love, either. Not with my whole soul as I once did when I was solely Brandon Stark. I cannot love, but that doesn’t mean you also have to give that up. There is potential in the bloodlines of each of you sitting before me. I would not like to waste it, like it has been wasted in the past with Barristan Selmy, Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent, and Jaime Lannister,” Bran finished evenly before turning his chair away from them. “That will be all for today, Sers. I must leave now; it would seem locating Drogon has been more problematic than previously anticipated.”

  
Brienne could always recognise a dismissal when she heard one. That was why she was here in the training yards, or what was left of them. She didn’t wait to hear what her fellow brothers made of Bran Stark’s odd decree, concerned about giving away more than she wished to show. It wasn’t her place to have an opinion on such things, it was merely her job to enforce whatever King Bran wanted enforcing. Even so, she could feel a deep irritation building within her, and yet she wasn’t quite sure where it was directed. At the King? Herself? Or the man whose name she didn’t dare think of, lest she give life to his shade?

  
She couldn’t quite let go of that idea though, of what could have been if only he’d stayed with her instead of riding back to his sister, towards the death that had inevitably awaited him. She had hoped… _hope is for foolish young maidens,_ she chastised, _both of which you no longer are. You are a warrior, not a maid. Marriage was never meant for you, just as you have always known._ A royal decree didn’t change that fact. But by Gods, it _hurt._ The thought that if things had been ever so slightly different she could have been sharing this news with him now, they could have been celebrating the possibilities this would have opened for them. Instead she was here, in the yards - alone. And after she was done, she would return to her cold room, her cold bed, where she would spend every night after this one alone, just as she had done before those few blissful days with him, back when she again thought the songs might contain a kernel of truth within them.

  
Grabbing a blunted training sword, Brienne began the routine of going through the correct poses, making sure to get her posture just so before taking her frustrations out on the wooden dummy before her. Thoughts of him began to creep in as she pummelled the figure with the insubstantial sword, the force of her blows reverberating up her arm as she hit it harder, and harder, and _harder._ Thoughts of the bodies she’d looked at when they reached King’s Landing came to her then, proudly on display for all who cared to look. The bodies of traitors. She couldn’t say whose idea it had been to hang them, whether that was due to the damned Dragon Queen or her Unsullied Commander. The thought of his corpse rotting there made her vision blacken, just as it had made her heart clench and her stomach roil when she first saw his bloated body displayed there upon the walls beside his sister. She hadn’t been able to get close enough to cut him down, to bury him with the dignity he deserved. The day they released Lord Tyrion however the bodies had been discretely moved. Buried a couple miles east of King’s Landing, or so she had heard. She wondered if they were buried together, if that’s what he would have wanted? She had no idea where he might be, unable to even say her final goodbye beside his grave.

  
It wasn’t long before Brienne felt her muscles begin to tire, aching in that sweet way she was already so familiar with. She was wearing her new Kingsguard armour, and while training in armour had never much tired her before she had noticed lately she was often more tired than not. The armour she had been gifted by the King was beautiful, a true example of craftsmanship, but she had noticed it didn’t quite fit her properly, pressing ever so slightly snug round her middle and shoulders. It wasn’t noticeable to anyone but her, but the fact of it niggled at her all the while. She had only ever had one set of armour that fit her perfectly in all her years, and she had used it well. _The armor Jaim-… the armor he had made for me,_ she thought wistfully. _That was almost like a second skin._ While Brienne acknowledged her lack of training since the battle with the dead, she didn’t think she should be as out of shape as this, surely?

\-----------------------------------------

When her muscles were suitably aching from the exertion, Brienne placed the wooden sword back in its makeshift shelter and began to striding in the direction of her rooms. She had a small council meeting to attend, the first small council meeting of King Bran’s advisors, in fact. Afterwards she would visit Sansa, she would be needing to return to the North soon and rule as Queen, and Brienne wanted to spend as much time with the young woman as she could before they were parted. Cleaning herself up, she grabbed a small bite to eat, her stomach slightly uneasy at the fare. Looking around the rooms, she felt a sadness settle over herself again as she acknowledged the fact of where she was sleeping. _These rooms belonged to him for years,_ she thought. _I wonder what he dreamed about in the bed I now sleep in. I wonder what letters he had occasion to write at that table. I wonder if he was happy here?_   She wondered a lot of things about him in this room, of his hopes and dreams, his disappointments. Ultimately, such thoughts just made her feel heartsore.

  
By the time the small council meeting was adjourned, they still hadn’t managed to achieve much, but the good will and feeling of solidarity in the air was palpable. She felt positivity for the future, a feeling that hadn’t been around much as of late. Turning to leave the room, she was halted by a confident voice calling her name.

  
“Lady Brienne, I wondered if we might have a moment to discuss some matters of importance?” Tyrion questioned.

  
He had remained seated, she noted, as she turned to look at him.

  
“As you wish, my Lord.” She stated, returning to her seat when he made no move to rise from his own.

  
When the room was empty and the door shut firmly behind Bronn, who was the last to leave with a questioning gleam on his face, Tyrion placed the full attention of his glance on her face. It slightly unnerved Brienne, but not nearly as much as Bran’s stare did, she had to acknowledge.

  
“I was looking through the White Book this morning,” Tyrion announced without preamble, “ when I noticed the new additions to my brothers page. I wanted to thank you.” He finished, his voice softening on the last few words.

  
“There is no need.” Brienne replied stiltedly. “It is the duty of the Lord Commander to fill the pages of the book. I was only doing what any Lord Commander would do.” She finished, her tone brooking no argument.

  
“You were kinder in your judgement of my brother than he perhaps deserved, my Lady. He managed to hurt many people in his time, and I’m sad to say you’re likely amongst them. Why were you so kind in your assessment of him?” Tyrion questioned.

  
She could tell there was no ulterior motive to his questioning. She had heard he had taken it hard, the loss of his siblings. She remembered losing her own dear brother Galladon as a child, remembered the deep pain she had felt, a pain she felt still when she reminisced about Tarth if she was to tell it true. She couldn’t bear to think how it would feel to have lost him at this point in her life, when they would have shared more history and had more memories together. Not quite knowing what Tyrion wanted from her answers, she gave him the only answer that she could.

  
“From what I knew of your brother, Lord Tyrion, he wasn’t a bad man.” Brienne took a deep breath before continuing, maintaining eye contact with the man before her. He had to know how truly she believed these words if they were to be of any comfort to him. “He was a man with a conflicted soul. He wanted to be the honourable Knight of songs, but often found himself taking the role of the Black Knight instead. He was more than just his worst deeds, and wherever the Stranger may have taken him the day King's Landing fell, he deserves to be remembered for all the good he did in this world. Not just for the bad.” She finished, her eyes feeling glassy.

  
She had written the new entries into his page the day her Kingsguard armour had been delivered to her. It only felt fitting that her first act of Lord Commander was to commemorate the old one. Others may never know the Jaime Lannister she had befriended all those years ago, but she was damned if history would only remember him as the Kingslayer. He was more than that, more than his perceived worst deed. He always had been in truth. _Even if he never believed it himself,_ she thought sadly.

  
Tyrion continued to observe her with eyes that saw too much. _He always looks sad now,_ she acknowledged. She hoped his cousin would help lend him some relief to his loneliness, stuck in King’s Landing as he was, but unfortunately she doubted it would. What was a cousin in place of a brother after all?

  
“Thank you, my Lady.” Tyrion again repeated; his eyes bright.

  
“I already told you don’t need to thank me, my Lord.” Brienne felt uncomfortable with praise. Especially for this. Filling in those pages was the least she owed his brother, it wasn’t right for Lord Tyrion to thank her for it.

  
“That isn’t what I’m thanking you for.” Tyrion instead returned.

  
“Then why are you thanking me?” She asked, confusion evident in her face and tone.

  
“I’m thanking you for seeing the man my brother was, and caring for him regardless. For accepting him for both the good and bad parts of his soul. You are perhaps the only person in the world who knew him just as well as I did, and I’m glad he had you in his life.” Tyrion admitted.

  
Brienne wasn’t sure how to reply to such a statement, to deny the bond they had once shared felt disingenuous. But all the same, it didn’t sit right with her. _Lord Tyrion shouldn’t be thanking me for seeing beyond the fake façade,_ her mind whispered. Before she could tell him so, he began to speak again.

  
“He had a message for you, the last time I spoke to him,” Tyrion announced, “he wanted me to tell you _‘It’ll always be yours’._ I asked him to elaborate, unsure if you’d know what he meant. He assured me you would understand his message. I hope he was right?”

  
Brienne felt her heart begin hammering in her chest at his words. _It’ll always be yours._ She could almost hear him whispering those words to her, and other words, words only spoken in the dark of night, in a castle in the North on a freezing, snow covered evening.

  
“I understand the message, my Lord.” She instead replied, unable and unwilling to elaborate to the man sat before her, even though he was his brother. “I thank you for delivering it.” She said instead, her speech only slightly stilted by the lump suddenly in her throat.

  
Understanding that this conversation had drawn to a natural close, Brienne saw Tyrion rise to his feet before her.

  
“I feel I’ve imposed enough on your time for now, my Lady.” He announced.

  
Saying her farewell to the Lord before her, Brienne quickly strode from the room, unseeing of her surroundings. Her hand grasping the Lion pommel of her sword, she didn’t even notice she was caressing it as she marched in the general vicinity of her rooms. All she could see right now was a pair of soft eyes, and a mouth repeating to her. _‘It’s yours. It’ll always be yours.’_

\-----------------------------------------

She didn’t know how much time she spent sat on the small single bed in her chambers, but by the time she came fully back to herself she realised she had to move quickly if she was to see Lady Sansa before the evening meal. Washing her face and changing her clothes, she began her walk to Sansa’s chambers to take tea with her. In all the time she had spent with the girl, this was the most relaxed she had ever known Lady Stark, but even still, she had noticed her Lady pacing, running her fingers along the secret dagger she carried for protection when she thought nobody was paying attention. Her moods seemed to change from one moment to the next. _That’s natural,_ a voice reminded her, _ever since you’ve known her, she’s been running or fighting someone. This must be the first time in years where she’s truly been able to breathe without having to worry about what comes next. This is the first time she’s resided in the Red Keep since the false King Joffrey died. So many emotions, no wonder she doesn’t know what she should be doing._

 

It was only a short walk from her own quarters to Lady Sansa’s, and she got there earlier than she had anticipated. Gently knocking on the door and waiting for a few moments, she was about to let herself in when she found the door opening before her. Dropping the handle, she stepped aside, surprised to see Lord Tyrion step into the corridor and begin bowing to her.

  
“My Lady.” He said, his eyes looking at her face, moving down over her body before craning his head back again to look at her, examining her for any signs of distress.

  
“Lord Tyrion.” She replied, only feeling slightly uncomfortable. “Is Lady Sansa feeling unwell?”

  
She could swear to the Mother that she noticed Lord Tyrion’s eyes soften at her concern for her young charge.

  
“Lady Sansa is quiet well I believe, Ser Brienne.” Tyrion replied before bowing slightly again. “Please excuse me, Lord Commander. I have an appointment with the King, and have lingered in Lady Sansa’s company longer than planned. I’m afraid I must be moving along.”

 

However, he had only moved a few steps away before he turned around and continued. “I’m sorry to say that I haven’t congratulated you on your new position as Lord Commander yet. If my brother were here, I know he would have been as proud of you as I am. The position couldn’t have gone to anyone more deserving than you.”

  
Brienne could only nod her acknowledgement, her throat suddenly going oddly dry. It was with relief that she saw Lord Tyrion continue towards where the King spent his afternoons, rather than waiting for a reply from her.

  
Entering Lady Sansa’s chambers, she was not surprised to see that the girl was already pouring two steaming cups of the steeped tea she had taken to drinking roughly two weeks prior. While Brienne was no great lover of tea, whether it be peppermint leaf, red raspberry leaf or anything to that effect, her Lady had taken to insisting she drink a cup whenever they were alone together. As such, Brienne hated to deny the girl anything, especially when she was showing such kindness and consideration to someone who wasn’t family. She didn’t want her to regress back into the girl she had met after killing Ramsay Bolton’s men. That girl had been full of hatred, both for herself and almost everyone around her. She had only begun to thaw upon seeing her brother again.

 

“You should have let me pour that, my Lady.” Brienne mildly chastised, a small smile on her face to show the girl it was only in jest that she admonished her.

  
“I’m more than capable of pouring us a cup of tea, Brienne. Please do take a seat. I imagine it has been a long day for you?” Sansa asked, placing the cup on the small side table beside Brienne’s favoured chair.

  
It didn’t sit right with her, that this beautiful, graceful Lady should be waiting on such a big, lumbering beast of a woman like herself. When she had tried to express as much to Sansa on the road however, she had been thoroughly overridden. As such, she had learnt her lesson. Don’t argue with the girl, especially when the girl was set to be Queen once she arrived back home to the North.

 

“Indeed, it has been my Lady. There is a lot of work needed to be done to make the Red Keep fully operational, and with the coronation of King Bran mere days away, every bit of help counts.”

  
“I’ve already told you to call me Sansa when we are alone, Brienne.” Sansa admonished gently. “How did the meeting go with Bran? I’d heard from Tyrion that some of your fellow brother Kingsguard were of mixed minds about what he decreed, but he wouldn’t go into the details. He said as Lord Commander, I was better off getting the story straight from you rather than indirectly from the mere Hand.” A small, gentle smile graced the girl’s lips then, but it was gone before Brienne could guess the cause of it. _Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion have been spending an awful lot of time together since his release,_ she noted. She would have to keep an eye on that. For all the girl had grown up since the last time she was at Kings Landing, she was still a young woman that wished for companionship, and wondered about love and all the things a Septa tells a young girl to expect when they become a young Lady. Even if she would never admit it to herself, Sansa Stark was still fragile in many ways once you got past her defences. She’d hate to see the girl get hurt again, she thought sadly.

  
“Your brother has decreed that Kingsguard will be able to marry from this moment on.” Brienne declared, carrying on when she saw the question Sansa was about to put word to. “They will still be unable to inherit any lands or titles, but if they have children, those lands will pass directly onto their child rather than their sibling, as the old custom had dictated.”

 

Brienne could tell Sansa was considering her next words carefully before speaking. Brienne merely looked at her and waited. The girl would speak when she was ready, and Brienne was happy to wait. Instead, she took a sip of her tea, enjoying the feel of the hot liquid going down her throat. _I could get used to this tea,_ Brienne thought as the knot in her stomach slowly started easing.

  
“How does my brother’s decision make you feel?” Sansa asked after a couple more moments of companionable silence.

  
“It does not make me feel anything.” Brienne declared, her guards raising slightly, even with this girl before her. “I will never marry.” She stated, hoping that would be the end of that line of questioning.

  
“And what of children?” Sansa quickly returned, pursuing her line of questioning instead. “You could still have an heir for Tarth. After all we have talked of, Brienne, I know being unable to give your house an heir has been one of the few regrets you’ve felt in life.”

 

Brienne didn’t know how to reply, her face starting to colour as unease filled her belly. An heir was all well and good, but what about the man she’d need to make an heir, and the marriage that would have to take place to save her house from shame? There had only been one who had made her consider setting down her sword for a time and replacing it with the wriggling bundle of a babe. And when he’d left to ride South, he’d taken those fledgling thoughts with him.  
“I will never have children, Sansa.” Seeing the girl appear confused by the finality in her tone, Brienne took pity and continued, “I had hoped that to be a possibility, once. But that time has passed. I will never have children because the man I had once hoped to have children with is no longer here.” She finished, trying not to think of that beautiful, animated face destroyed by the rubble of the Red Keep.

 

“You mean the Kingslayer.” Sansa stated; her voice oddly sad.

  
Brienne knew she had suspected something more was building between herself and Jaime at Winterfell, even if it had gone unsaid until this moment.

  
“Ser Jaime.” Brienne replied, correcting her mildly. He was more than just the Kingslayer, she would ensure others acknowledged that, even if it was only around her. “But as I said, the matter of an heir is irrelevant.”

  
“What if it wasn’t?” Sansa questioned instead, her tone and body language oddly guarded.

  
Brienne wondered what the meaning of this could be. _I have just admitted outside the privacy of my own mind that the only man I could ever love is dead and gone. Does the girl truly think me so easily able to move on?_ Brienne wondered. But she knew that wasn’t true, Sansa was a lot of things, but she wasn’t that needlessly cold or insensitive. Not anymore, at least, well, _not with me,_ she amended. The girl had a steel core, but she’d needed to after her experiences. If you earnt Sansa’s trust, she was the most loyal girl you could hope to serve.

  
_I’m going to miss her,_ she realised. _I don’t know when I’ll see her again once she rides North._

 

“Words are wind.” Brienne replied flatly instead. “There is no sense in living in what ifs and maybes, there is only the world as we see it before us. To dwell on thoughts of it being any other way is to court hardship.” Brienne knew that all too well.

  
Sansa looked sad again, her eyes downcast before she looked Brienne squarely in the eye and lightly grasped her hand.

  
“There is something I must discuss with you, Brienne. Do you trust me to tell you the truth as I see it?” She questioned; her eyes challenging.

  
Brienne didn’t trust many people in her life. Her childhood as an oafish, ugly girl to be laughed at, and then her treatment at Renly’s camp had taught her that trust had to be earnt, and earnt well before it was bestowed. But she trusted Sansa. If Sansa wanted her to trust her, then trust her she would.

  
“I trust you, Sansa. What is it you wish to tell me?”

  
“Brienne, I fear you may be with child.”

  
Sansa spoke the words clearly, but Brienne was sure she must have misheard her. With child? Her? It couldn’t be. She had been careful, in the face of another war. They had both agreed that taking the moon tea was for the best, it did no harm as a preventative, she had made sure to take it-  
She had made sure to take it every night. Every night except one, she realised. _The night he left._

 

She had forgotten to take it the night he left. She had forgotten to take it, and now, _and now…_

  
Sansa gripped her hand tighter.

  
“I… you… You have been treating me differently as of late.” Her gaze flittered over to the cup of tea cooling beside her. “The tea you insist I drink, the extra serving of food that has begun appearing on my plate, all those times you’ve pressed me to take a seat and rest in your company. It is because you believe I’m expecting a child?” Brienne asked the question but she already knew the answer.

 

“At first I had hoped I was mistaken. I do not need to tell you how people treat unwed mothers or bastards.” Sansa’s face wrinkled with disgust before continuing, “But as time went on and I realised you were still unaware, I began to consider things. I am sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I was just unsure of how to broach this topic with you.” Sansa finished, again giving Brienne’s hand another squeeze.

  
Brienne removed her hand from under Sansa’s own to rub her face. _What am I going to do?_ She questioned. Dropping her hands to her lap, she gave Sansa a wan smile, noting the concern in the young woman’s features. And in spite of everything, Brienne felt _grateful._ Grateful for this young girl in front of her, who had been a true friend to her, in ways she didn’t even realise until now, and grateful, a part of her whispered secretly to herself, for the life that was growing inside her. The situation may be less than ideal, but a day ago she had resigned herself to a life without motherhood. To have that door suddenly open to her again was frightening, yes… but she didn’t regret it, or wish it away.

 

“So, what do I do now?” Brienne asked, her question more for herself than the girl in the seat beside her.

  
“We go to Samwell Tarly.” Sansa stated matter of factly. “He should be able to give you an estimation of the babes age. After that… well, only you can make that decision, Brienne. But I’ll support you, no matter what that decision is, just as you supported me so long ago.”

  
Brienne had no words. She already knew she wouldn’t, couldn’t, cast aside her child. Even if the journey ahead would not be easy, the Mother had given her a chance at a new life, and she could not waste that opportunity.

  
“Thank you, Sansa.” Was all she said, instead rising from her seat. “I need to return to my chambers; I need time to think all this over.” Brienne stated.

  
“Take all the time you need.” Was Sansa’s reply. “And know if you need anything, I am only a few doors away.”

  
Brienne nodded before striding and exiting out the door. Walking to her own chambers, still Jaime’s in truth, she felt her heart clench. _If only he could have known,_ her heart cried. But it was as she had told Sansa. There was no point in wishing for things that could never be.

 


	3. Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off I'd like to deeply apologise for the delay in the chapter, but you wouldn't believe the issues I've had with it!
> 
> Firstly, after writing it I was going through the process of editing it, gaining about 2k words in the process to close off and finish up the last scene later on before I uploaded. When I reopened it, all the editing I'd done for the past three hours was gone despite me saving it numerous times (why this happened I have no idea)
> 
> THEN, when I'm nearly through editing it again the laptop forces me to restart it and opens up a critical_service_failed error. To say my heart was in my throat is an understatement, not only did I have over 7k words of fic on here but some pretty substantial coursework too. Luckily I managed to fix the damned thing after an hour, to my overwhelming relief.
> 
> As such, if this editing isn't as sharp as my previous standards I apologise, but in truth I just wanted to get the thing uploaded before any other disaster could strike me. So here I sit, at 3:30am my time, hoping you guys enjoy it!
> 
> Please leave me a review and let me know what your opinions are!

Dismissing the newly appointed Commander of the Gold Cloaks before him, Tyrion waited until the wooden door clattered shut after the slight man before placing his head into his scarred hands and groaning. It was a mere matter of days before Brandon Stark’s coronation and his official reign as King of the six Kingdoms would begin. Nothing was ready of course. There wasn’t enough gold for repairs to all of the bedchambers they’d need to house the remaining Lords and Ladies of Westeros, the seamstresses hired would be unable to suitably attire the King in clothing befitting his station without adequate supplies, the bakers bemoaned the lack of time afforded them to make a truly sumptuous pigeon pie fit for the occasion. _Although,_ a small voice acknowledged in Tyrion’s head, _considering the last time pigeon pie was served at a royal gathering Joffrey died and I was forcibly tried for murder, perhaps the lack of pigeon pie is a blessing from the Gods in disguise._ While Tyrion didn’t set much stock by omens, as few reminders of that day could only be to their benefit.

 

Raising his head and rolling his shoulders to remove the knot that had been building there, Tyrion quietly acknowledged his relief that he only needed to help arrange a coronation and not a wedding also. When Robert Baratheon had been crowned King, his marriage to Cersei had taken place less than a fortnight thereafter. He had no idea how Jon Arryn had managed it, in fact Tyrion didn’t remember much from that occasion at all, the honeyed wine helping him to suffer through the revelry quite admirably. _At least there had been ample amounts of gold to afford those celebrations,_ he acknowledged. It was during his preparations for the Coronation that Tyrion could truly appreciate the skill with which Littlefinger gathered money. Although Bronn was good at spending gold, he was not half so gifted in acquiring it at present. Despite their less than stellar amounts of coin in the bank, Tyrion still felt the progress they were making was proving hopeful.

 

Refilling his goblet with a deep red from the Arbor, Tyrion acknowledged the strides that had currently been made in repairing the Red Keep and the homes of the smallfolk who still lived in Kings Landing. Although of the latter, repairs were much easier done than anticipated considering the sheer amount of smallfolk Daenerys managed to dispatch in one fiery afternoon. _The dead don’t want homes for their bones to reside in,_ he thought bitterly. _The ones that still have bones, and are simply not ashes on the wind, that is._ While the Red Keep would take years in truth to be repaired to its former glory, the buildings that hadn’t collapsed had managed to be secured, the dead servants in the castle that day buried with a dignity their death – and the Unsullied, had denied them previous to Bran’s appointment as King.

 

Thinking of bodies reminded him of the sight that had greeted his eyes when he had been freed from captivity under Grey Worm. While his hatred for Cersei had been strong, he still felt a vicious knot pulling in his stomach when he remembered seeing her bloated form suspended from the walls of the Keep, her eyes long gone to crows. She’d always been such an indestructible, insurmountable force in his life, to see her reduced to carrion caused him more emotions than he had anticipated. The only saving grace had been knowing the body beside her was not also that of his brother despite his disguise to convince people of the latter. He’d made sure to remove them and bury the pair in unmarked graves several miles away as soon as he’d been able, a part of him getting great satisfaction from Cersei being buried without ceremony. It seemed in death, she was just the same as the people she had loathed and ruled over, short as that time had been. He’d buried an acorn atop her grave, thinking perhaps one day it would grow, its great branches covering travellers from the elements, something good finally coming from her life. Frowning, Tyrion wondered how long the Unsullied had left the bodies out to the elements to rot. Since the day Daenerys had been slain? Or was it more a statement to the army Sansa had brought to their doors, a threat of what was to come to her cousin if they weren’t suitably placated? He only hoped the Lady Brienne hadn’t seen them. He knew his brother would throttle him if he ever found out that that was a possibility, the last thing he’d want for the woman would be to have that image of his brother in her head. A part of him also whispered something else, something dangerous, that if indeed she’d had a closer look at the man suspended beside Cersei, she might not have been as fooled as the rest of the army who rode South for Jon Snow.

  
  
Taking a large swallow of the sweet wine, Tyrion’s mind again repeated his conversation a few days prior with Brienne. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to mention the White Book to her, only that the deeds that had found their way onto his brother’s page surprised him. The obvious care taken with the choosing of each word astonished him all the more. He was again overcome with the unhappy knowledge that this was a decent, kind Lady his brother had injured. It was extraordinary in truth to find someone still so selfless after all the horrors of war, many she had likely seen first-hand. And how had his brother repaid Brienne’s loyalty? By riding away so he could try and die with the twin that had sent Bronn to assassinate them should the dead fail, as far removed in the North as they were. Even if his quest to find said brother was successful, it would not change what Jaime had done to the Knight. A part of Brienne would always be changed by whatever had taken place the day his brother had fled Winterfell; he could tell that already in her attitudes. It might be subtle, but she was changed from the woman he’d teased in the Great Hall of House Stark, her face less open, her demeaner more guarded. Regaining her trust would not be an easy task for his brother, if she even allowed him that chance, _if you ever find him,_ his mind also supplied. It had been the same for him when he’d found Shae in his father’s bed, and the disturbing acts that had followed on from that moment. _Betrayal is not something one easily recovers from,_ he sadly acknowledged, _or easily forgives._

 

His later exchange also echoed in his mind. He knew of Sansa’s plan to mention her suspicions to the Lady of Tarth concerning her condition. He couldn’t help but wonder if that conversation had already taken place? He had been unable to speak to the new Queen of the North since that day, and he found himself missing her more than he would like to acknowledge. He knew a separation from her now was likely best, after all, she would be leaving for the North after the Coronation, and no doubt it would be many months, nay, years before they saw one another again. Still, he found himself thinking on the young woman at strange points of the day, or seeking out news of Lady Stark whenever possible or appropriate from the people he summoned to his office to set tasks for. He couldn’t help but acknowledge how resplendent she had indeed looked the afternoon of their last tête-à-tête, her lustrous red hair setting a beautiful contrast against the milky paleness of her skin when she turned her head to speak to him. _The girl has grown into a fine figure of a woman. Indeed, she’s as fiery as that hair of hers,_ he mused, _too fine a Lady for a man such as myself of course. She was always too fine for the likes of me, in truth._ He also remembered her asking had he thought of any solutions to Brienne’s predicament if she was with child, and his reply in the negative. He could tell her frustration at that, her hints that perhaps there was someone out there able to make the situation right, if only they could be found. His lips twisted viciously as he replayed that part of their conversation. _What is the point in being the richest man in the realm if your coin can’t even buy you answers?_ She hadn’t sounded angry, more exasperated than anything. But she was right, what was the point indeed? His father had learnt that money couldn’t buy everything when Jaime had remained prisoner to the Starks for over a year, it would seem Tyrion would indeed be learning the same lesson as he also strived to bring his brother home, likewise without success. It had taken Brienne of Tarth to bring him home last time, Tyrion only hoped the lure of her would return him to their arms again.

 

He hated that he’d been unable to keep his promise. To her, to his future nephew or niece, for his brother and for the Lady Brienne. It reminded him of how inadequate he had proved of late in the tasks trusted to him. He wouldn’t be insufficient with this, he swore. He couldn’t afford to be. He’d find Jaime, if it was the last thing he did. Unless he’s already food for the worms, an insidious voice inside him whispered. He ignored it. His brother had already defied the Stranger by living even after a building fell atop him, he refused to believe he’d died, nothing more than another anonymous casualty of the war between his sister and the Dragon Queen. _The realm has supped its fill on the blood of the fallen,_ his mind repeated almost like a mantra.

 

Before his thoughts could turn anymore defeatist, he was pulled from his musings by a swift, if light, knocking at his chamber. Who could this be? He had cleared his afternoon, intending to make as many arrangements for the Coronation as possible. The door creaked open as the surprise guest entered the room, and as such, his question was answered.

 

Head down, feet shuffling in almost begrudgingly, Samwell Tarly stepped into the room like a man come to his own execution. He stood before the desk Tyrion was sat at, and surprisingly, lifted his head to look him square in the eye. Tyrion was impressed, everything else about the man’s demeanour screamed of discomfiture. Everything apart from his clear gaze.

 

“What may I do for you, Lord Tarly? I admit, I wasn’t expecting a social call at present.” A thought occurred to him them, “Nothing ails the King, does it?”

 

Shaking his head before responding, Samwell returned, “The King is in hearty health, all considered. I actually came to you on account of this.” Sam levelled, placing a slightly grimy, innocuous looking journal down in front of Tyrion.

 

He hadn’t noticed the book in the young Grand Maesters hands before that moment. How peculiar. What interest could this slim volume hold for the likes of him?

 

“Without wanting to seem dim-witted, could you explain to me what this book,” he lifted it at this point, feeling the fine leather as it rubbed against his fingers, “has to do with me? I take it you’ve read its contents if you believe it needs delivering here?”

 

Nodding in the affirmative, Samwell took a deep breath before explaining his purpose in Tyrion’s chambers.

 

“It’s Qyburn’s journal, well, it was originally Pycelle’s in truth. You’d probably recognise it as a Maesters record of health. They generally detail the births and any illnesses the royal family may have suffered from. It ranges from the time Robert was King until the day your sister...” Tarly stumbled at that, clearly unsure of the appropriate terms to use. “The last entry is dated a week before the Capital fell. I admit, curiosity had me reading it,” Samwell had the good grace to look remorseful at that confession, “but I’m glad I did. I think its important you read the last few entries pertaining to your sister, Lord Tyrion.” He finished mysteriously.

 

“Why would a book about Cersei and any fevers or chills she might have contracted while plotting in the Keep hold interest to me?” Tyrion replied, his tone not biting, merely… _curious._

 

“Read it and find out.” Sam simply replied. “Please excuse me, my Lord.” He finished before quietly exiting the small room.

 

Tyrion had to admit to his interest being piqued. Opening the cover of the old leather, he inhaled the scent of the book, saturated with potions and the smell of herbs as it was. Skimming through the contents, he paused at the entry detailing Joffrey’s birth, written in Pycelle’s neat scrawl.

 

_A hale and hearty lad, golden of hair and with strong, healthy lungs. The childbearing lasted a mere nine hours and passed without any serious issue, a positive sign for future childbearing by the Queen._

 

Tyrion hadn’t been in the Capital when his sister had given birth to her eldest child, hidden away at Casterly Rock to work on the sewers and drains. He continued to skim through the contents of the book, recognising an entry detailing the bout of sweating sickness his sister had suffered from, and the details of the births of Myrcella and Tommen. When he reached an entry with an entirely different scrawl, he began to pay closer attention to the words on the page. He only had to flip a handful of sheets forward before he found one with the corner turned down. He gathered this must be where Samwell Tarly had intended him to begin reading. Taking a small sip of the wine to his right, he began.

 

_The Queen entered my chambers this evening in great distress. After several moments she explained her need for an examination, her moons cycle currently several days late. After perusing previous entries, it would seem that the Queen’s internal clock has always been regular, the only exceptions being when she was expecting the births of her three previous children. It will be several days before the wheat and barley test provides a result. Will visit the issue again at that time. Need more early-term specimens for comparison. Request has been made to the Queen._

 

Intrigued, Tyrion flipped the page over to peruse the next entry, purposefully trying to ignore the meaning of that last line and the horror and disgust it brought to mind when he thought of the ‘specimens’ Qyburn would need to make a detailed comparison to his sister.

 

_Wheat and barley experiment proved unresponsive; nothing has sprouted at present. I have asked for a sample of the Queen’s water, and will undertake the winery assessment and see if that concludes the Queen is with child or if the result is still to the contrary. Other subjects who are at a similar gestational timeframe to the Queen’s suspected progeny proved positive in the wheat and barley experiment. As such, prognosis looks negative at present._

 

Tyrion had to reread that entry several times over before he could truly comprehend the words before him. If this was correct… could his sister have truly told such a convincing lie as that? Was Jaime complicit in the lie, or was he as equally deceived? Tyrion regretted the thought as soon as it entered his mind. Jaime had done many things, but he wouldn’t have lied about something like _that._ Not to him. Cersei on the other hand, of her he could believe almost anything. She had learnt well how to adopt many types of faces during her years as Robert’s Queen.

 

It was then that he had another thought, a thought that quickly took root deep within him. He had convinced Daenerys against attacking the city when she had first landed on Westeros’ shores, and all for the sake of an unborn child. A child he had now learnt would never take breath because it was nothing but a figment of imagination. Maybe if he hadn’t done that the city wouldn’t currently be in ruins, mothers without children and children without parents wouldn’t be roaming the streets of Kings Landing, barely a penny to their name and no roof to call home. _Those still alive,_ his mind supplied. _I’m not quite sure who’s luckier._ He felt cold despite the fire burning heartily in the grate, his anger so palpable he could taste it. He was almost tempted to throw the damnable tome into the grate, but something whispered to him to keep reading, and so, he did.

 

_It is without any doubt that I conclude the Queen is not with child, the winery test negating the Queen’s suspicions. It is my belief instead that Queen Cersei is beginning the process of her lady’s change. While granted her change has come early, it is not unheard of in women of her breeding. As such, her chances for future children will be significantly reduced and highly unlikely with each passing turn of the moon. It has occurred to me that is would be beneficial to keep this information from the Queen at present. I fear for her frame of mind should she find out she is indeed not with child, considering the increasing symptoms making her believe that fact to be to the contrary._

 

Tyrion had never felt such hate for another person, his soul screaming at the pleasure denied him to rip Qyburn limb from limb for his lie. A lie that had cost the realm dearly. But also, he felt relieved. There had never been a baby, despite Cersei’s beliefs that she was beginning to build a dynasty. That was likely something she would have been unable to achieve, even with all the gold in the Seven Kingdoms, and he knew that would have been a hard-hitting blow for his sister to take. He hated to think on the actions that would have subsequently followed her receiving such news. Tyrion was glad she had died unaware of the truth.

 

However, he couldn’t help but wonder what Qyburn’s plan had been once the wars were over, if Cersei had been the victor in the battle against Daenerys. Would he have confided the truth to her? He quickly pushed that thought aside, _the worm wouldn’t dare put himself at such risk,_ he surmised. No doubt he had planned to feed her some potion to mimic the effects of a miscarriage. It was with no small relief that Tyrion realised his sister had died alone in the bowels of the Keep, that by bringing Daenerys across the narrow sea, his actions hadn’t also helped destroy the life of an innocent babe before it had even begun. He still had the lives of thousands dripping down his fingers, but at least that didn’t have to join them on his conscience. _Or on Jaime’s._ That is, if he could ever find his dolt of a brother to tell him such.

 

He owed Samwell Tarly for this knowledge, that realisation had not gone unnoticed to him. His delivery of the Maesters record of health was a kindness he was not accustomed to in Kings Landing. He owed the man, and Lannister’s were known for paying their debts.

  
\--------------------------------------

  
It wasn’t hard to locate Davos in Flea Bottom the next morning. Despite the Kings coronation being almost upon them, Davos still insisted on returning to his one-time home to help repair what he could while supporting the orphans created that day, feeding them food paid for from the coin in his own pocket. Tyrion held back a moment, observing the man. He had to admit; Davos Seaworth was full of surprises. It was clear to any who cared enough to look that the man had a natural gift with children, obvious in the way they flocked around him, each asking him a question that he happily answered in turn. _Its not because he’s feeding them either,_ he realised, _they truly care for the man, they wish to be in his company, to hear of his time at sea and the stories he naturally accrued in those years._

 

Tyrion continued to observe him for several more moments before coughing loudly to get the man’s attention. Davos stilled before facing him, his body relaxing when he saw who demanded his recognition. One grey, bushy eyebrow raising in question as a result. _You have need of me?_ That eyebrow said.

 

Tyrion nodded in the affirmative. _Yes, I do,_ his nod supplied. Saying his goodbyes to the children surrounding him, Tyrion could hear the complaints being levelled at the elderly man as he walked towards Tyrion, sentences exclaiming, _‘But you only just got here! When will you be back milord Davos? I thought you were going to tell us about the battle against the Octy-puss today!’_ Tyrion had to fight to keep his face impassive, his lips trying to push themselves up into a smile. It seemed the old sailor had successfully acquired several wards in the short time Tyrion had been imprisoned and ultimately released. Davos was beside him then, leading him towards a cove in Blackwater Bay, he explained. A place where they wouldn’t be overheard by attentive ears.

 

Neither of them uttered a word as they walked to the spot Davos had outlined, each preferring to keep their own council until they could talk securely.

 

“I presume you’re here to enquire if I’ve had anymore luck than yourself in the matter we last discussed?” Davos opened.

 

Tyrion was once again reminded why he enjoyed the company of Davos Seaworth. It was a rare man that cut through the preamble, getting to the heart of the matter in mere moments rather than choosing to dance around it to gather more information.

 

“You would presume right, my Lord. Has there been any word?”

 

“I’m sad to say there hasn’t, Lord Tyrion. It would seem your brother once lost is a hard man to find again.”

 

Tyrion’s lips turned up at that, although there was no warmth in the small smile he bestowed. He was beginning to learn all too well how slippery Jaime could be when he had a mind to be. _My brother must be one of the most infamous men in all the Kingdoms,_ he reasoned, _and yet, a whispered promise in taverns and brothels far and wide, a promise of a purse heavy with gold to any man who could deliver reliable intelligence on the Kingslayer still goes uncollected._ It couldn’t help but rankle him that despite his best efforts, Tyrion was still failing to get any closer to finding Jaime than he had the first day he’d approached Davos to learn all the other man knew. He again ruminated on his decision to betray Varys, at the various consequences that had wrought. He knew that if Varys was still living, he would likely already have supplied Tyrion with several promising leads. _He might have even located him by now._ But he was here no more, again due to a mistake Tyrion had made, his seat still empty in meetings. That reminded him, _I still need to find a new Master of Whispers._ Although, he acknowledged, they would be hard pressed to surpass the previous Master.

 

“Yes, hard to locate indeed. Have your associates had any greater luck in locating him? Any promising news about a man riding on the road towards the Rock?” He enquired hopefully.

 

“There’s been nay a sighting or a sound of him. Once my man left him near Tumbletown, the lead goes cold.”

 

Tyrion thought as much. It had been a last-minute plan of his, to send Lord Davos out on the skiff with a man in a heavy cloak as his passenger while some cousin of Davos’ accompanied Jaime partway on the road. If anyone suspected Tyrion of duplicity, they’d be expecting him to lead his brother away from Kings Landing by sea. But by horse? He knew his brother would just appear to be one of many fleeing the Capital, and it had the added bonus of him being able to answer honestly if pressed for his brother’s location, no matter what the interrogator may have intended to do to him. He was beginning to regret that decision now however, his brother seeming to blend too well into his surroundings, unseen by eyes that wanted nothing more than to seek him out. He could be on any road, or even any ship by now, for all Tyrion would know. He was beginning to think that nothing short of a small miracle from the Gods would be able to relocate him.

 

“I feared as much.” Tyrion instead chose to reply, keeping his frustration in check, his anger tampered down. It wouldn’t do to shout at the only ally he had in this matter, after all.

 

“If you don’t mind me asking, Lord Tyrion, I thought the whole intention behind losing your brother was so that he could do his penance as he chose fit, and you could remain plausible in your deniability. Isn’t returning him to Kings Landing contrary to what you both agreed upon?” Davos questioned, clearly curious but not much expecting an answer.

 

Tyrion took a few moments to contemplate his next words, his gaze drawn to the Blackwater. To think that they had fought on differing sides of that ocean seemed a fictitious jape to him now. Separate sides of a war, but now allies in peace. _Oh, how far we’ve come,_ he mused.

 

“Let’s just say that he has penance to make here in the city he fled, something that should be his primary concern, above all others. He cannot repair that damage until he is made aware of it, and aware of it he’ll want to be.” Tyrion finished, his voice quiet as he watched the ocean, the icy spray strangely soothing against his wan face.

 

Davos chose to remain silent, his gaze also drawn to the Blackwater, his thoughts drawn to that hectic night so many years ago. To thoughts of simpler times, rather than of the times ahead, times he suspected would not be easy for either of them.

  
\---------------------

  
In all his years, Tyrion was still unable to figure out how men did it. Entering the Great Hall of the Red Keep, he observed all the Lords and Ladies that had already travelled South for the Coronation a mere two days hence. One wouldn’t know they had not long ended a spate of wars or that winter was due upon them any day now if they were to observe the revelry taking place before him. Moving through the shadows of the room to take his place next to the King on the dais, he was well aware that his absence would have been noted by the impassive Brandon Stark, even if no one else in the room had perceived his absence. Noting that the Lord Commander _and_ Sansa’s seats were also vacant, his being filled with mild relief at not being the only guest late to the evening’s revelry. It also led him to wonder, where on earth could the ladies be? It was unlike Brienne to shirk her duties, and Sansa was too much of a lady to ignore an invitation from her brother, an invitation he was sure Bran had made.

 

Before his footsteps could carry him into the warm light and sight of everyone else in the hall, Tyrion found his feet stopping stock still before his mind could comprehend the reason behind it. It was a mere moment before he realised what had stalled his movements, his whole being turning glacial as he listened to the words getting exchanged on the table closest to his right.

 

“It is the most advantageous political alliance the Stark girl could make.” Yohn Royce asserted, his hand banging the tankard of ale against the long table aggressively.

 

“And it has nothing to do with securing Robin Arryn a strong wife, someone to succeed where he will most likely fail in leading the Vale?” Anya Waynwood countered, continuing before Royce could speak. “I love the boy just as well as you, Yohn, but Lysa did him no favours by coddling him as she did. He commands no respect, no love. He is no Jon Arryn, despite your best attempts to mould him in his shadow. It is something you know as well as I, and something we can shy away from no longer. He might have made a good Lord once, and he has come along in great strides since you began fostering him at Runestone. But I fear the damage is already done.” She finished, eyeing the man seated beside her with pity.

 

Remaining out of sight in the shadows, Tyrion could tell that this wasn’t the first time the pair had had this conversation, their words free from the anger they would pertain if this conversation were fresh. Making sure nobody was observing him as he earwigged on the words they spoke to one another, he continued to listen, his mind supplying him with several suitable motivations as to why he was invading the privacy of the Lord and Lady sat nearby. _I am the Hand of the King; it is my duty to gather information that may be pertinent to the Realm._

 

“The boy just needs time and patience.” Royce argued. “Sansa Stark would be a good match for him, that much is true, but likewise he would be for her. The girl is the last of her House, Sansa has already confided in me that her sister intends to leave Westeros and quite possibly never return once their brother heads back to the Wall. She has to marry, and marry someone of suitable station and pedigree to ensure an heir, so why should she not choose to marry Robin?” He questioned, supping his beer deeply.

 

Anya Waynwood seemed surprised at the words Royce had just spoken to her, her face becoming thoughtful for several moments before quietly imparting her reply.

 

“And if the girl disagrees with your plans, if she decides she does not wish to marry again after the disasters that were her first and second match? You say she needs to secure an heir, that much we can both agree on with her new position in the North.” Anya acknowledged, continuing quickly. “But there are other ways to secure an heir, she may yet choose to allocate one instead of needing to marry to produce a successor.”

 

Yohn thought for a moment before replying, his tone hushed. “Sansa may not wish to marry yet, indeed maybe never after her matches to the Imp and the Bastard. But she is a Stark, and she will do her duty to her House to secure its future, I know the girl well enough to be assured of that. She will not let her House die out because of something she could have avoided. She knows she needs an heir, and Robin has assured me he would allow the first child born of a potential union between them bear the name of Stark.” He finished, chewing on a hunk of buttered bread before Lady Waynwood could form her reply.

 

Tyrion couldn’t bare to listen any longer. Striding as quickly as his short legs would allow, he made it to his seat on the dais, eyes unseeing. He had vowed to limit his drinking to a mere three glasses of honeyed wine this evening, aware that he would need all his wits about him the next day as he continued to make the last-minute arrangements needed for the coronation.

 

He was on his fifth glass of wine before his hand began to settle next to the goblet, rather than continuously fetching it to his mouth. The pitcher closest to him was almost empty due to his efforts, while his plate sat bare before him.

 

 _So, she intends to marry the young Lord Arryn, does she?_ The wine tasted sour in his mouth as he reminisced on his brief yet memorable time in the Eyrie, the image of the boy still suckling on his mother’s teat as clear before his eyes as if it took place only yesterday. _Surely Sansa wouldn’t marry a milksop such as him?_ His mind pleaded. But before his thoughts could continue to travel down that road, the image changed. It changed to the one in the dragon pit, to the young man that boy had become, seemingly strong and the definition of a handsome Lord, by Westeros’ standards at the very least. The kind of young man whose appearance songs were sung about, and he was just so very _tall._

 

Other words were joining in his mind now, words reminding him that of course Sansa would remarry, what need had she to remain unwed now that the fighting was done? She was Queen in the North, nobody could force her into a union she didn’t desire, not even Yohn Royce and all the Lords of the Vale combined. The fact that the man seemed so assured of her potential match to the young Lord Arryn surely meant he had received some sign from her, no matter how small, that such a match wouldn’t be unwelcome? _It would never work between us,_ Sansa’s voice reminded him. The words began distorting, taking on a bitter, mocking tone that the ones in life had never possessed. It would never work between them, but between the young Lady Stark and Lord Arryn? He took another gulp of wine, slaking the drought that only seemed to increase with each cup he emptied as he recollected the _disaster_ Sansa obviously felt their marriage had been.

 

He’d had enough. Enough of wallowing, enough of the merriment taking place before his eyes. Rising from his seat, his vision only slightly distorted from the wine, Tyrion was very careful as he slowly made his way out of the room where the celebrations continued to be held, unaware of the eyes of the King that followed him through the doorway. He was heading towards his bedchamber, his mind still spewing bitter assertions at him despite his best efforts to focus on other matters when he veered off course, his feet once again deciding his destination rather than his mind.

 

It wasn’t long before his feet began slowing, their destination apparent as he stepped through the doorway leading into the internal gardens of the Keep. A popular stroll for the Ladies of court, the small area showed limited damage despite the condition of the rest of the Red Keep, here the foundations were almost untouched, the flowers still valiantly trying to hold onto their bloom. _To step in here is to almost step back in time,_ Tyrion mused, his lips twisting into something like a smile at the thought, but appearing more of a grimace. He was already stepping into the garden, his feet leading him to where he knew a thick marble bench resided close by when he stilled, his eyes recognising her in the dim light the moon afforded before she even had a chance to detect his presence.

 

Realising what a bad decision conversing with the young Sansa Stark would be at this moment, Tyrion made to retreat from the garden, from this whole section of this castle if needs be when his foot made the unfortunate error of stepping on a branch. The crack of it sounded as loud as the clashing of swords in that moment. Sansa’s head instantly turned towards him; the speed of her movement quite jarring.

 

And then she smiled. At _him._

 

“Lord Tyrion, I didn’t expect to find you in the gardens at this time.” Sansa spoke softly, her expression open, pleased, as she looked him clear in the eye.

 

“I doubt anyone would take in the blooms at this late hour, Lady Stark.” Tyrion instead replied, his feet resolutely staying still and obeying him for once this evening.

 

Sansa’s face creased, her eyes exhibiting her confusion and a new wariness before continuing, “I admit, the light isn’t optimal for a stroll around the grounds, but the area is a peaceful retreat from the din of the Hall.” She finished; her tone guarded. She continued to examine his face, to note the tenseness of his muscles before moving her gaze skyward for a moment prior to speaking once again. “Would you care to sit with me, Tyrion?” Her tone was warmer, a small, delicate smile on her features when she looked at him, but the wary look in her eyes hadn’t retreated.

 

He knew it was false, knew she could only be humouring him to foster good-will in light of their new working relationship once she returned North. Ignoring her offer, Tyrion placed down a gauntlet before her instead as he asked,

 

“I believe a congratulations are in order, _my Queen._ I admit, I thought word of your imminent marriage might come from you considering the history we share, from one companion to another. To hear of your future match to the Lord of the Vale by other means… that was an unexpected by-product of the evening. I hope you’ll be very happy together, truly I do.” Tyrion snarled; his blood heating hotter through him with every word spoken, with every image the words evoked inside him.

 

Sansa’s face was a tale of bewilderment and betrayal. He could see the façade changing, the open smile from when she first saw him disappearing beneath the waves, the cold, hard veneer of Lady Stark replacing it in a matter of seconds. _The transformation is truly astounding,_ a detached part of him admired.

 

“I have no concept of where you have gathered such ludicrous information, _Lord Lannister,_ but whoever has spread such hearsay is mistaken. I have no intention of marrying at this present time.” She bit out, her voice cold and cutting like a blade.

 

“No intention _at this time?_ But indeed, my Lady, you’ll be marrying him in the future?” Tyrion pressed, raising a hand as she opened her mouth to argue. “I hope you know who you’re allying yourself with.” He pressed instead, his own tone matching hers in crispness. “A boy that close to his mother, it’ll open up to all sort of problems for you. He also has a perverse obsession with the Vale’s moon door, and making subjects fly through it if I rightly remember. Pray do tell me, will you and the little Lord be residing in the North or the Kingdom of Mountain and Vale upon your union?”

 

“I am Queen in the North, and will remain in the North no matter _who_ I may choose to marry. What I do with my future is of no concern to you or anyone else.” Sansa spat, her pale face reddening to a satisfying shade resembling a strawberry. Her voice was subdued as she resumed, “What has possessed you to speak as such to me, Tyrion?”

 

He turned his face away at her beseeching tone, a painful knot forming between his eyebrows. He didn’t know where his anger came from, in truth. He only knew the girl before him didn’t deserve it, and once released, he had always been unable to hold it back. That had always been a family trait when it came to himself and his siblings. Instead he changed tack, voice turning from angry to imploring on a dime.

“Was it a trick?” Tyrion inquired, his voice almost pleading as he lent sound to the doubts within. “Did you tell me of your cousins true heritage with the intent of me spreading that knowledge for you, or because you truly wished for my council?” He probed.

 

He wasn’t quite sure of where the question had come from, only knew that the one thing he cared for at this moment was a truthful answer from her. He held his breath, nerves firing inside him as his ears strained for her response.

 

Hands balled into fists; Sansa turned away from Tyrion’s open gaze before retorting without inflection. “After all you have said to me this evening, I’m not sure you would ever accept the truth if I spoke it. In my girlhood, you had always seemed to be the cleverest man alive. In spite of everything, nobody could outthink or out plan you, it seemed somehow that you saw the truth of a man even if he could not see it himself. _And yet,_ ” Sansa spoke, a bitter chuckle emerging from her throat before swiftly proceeding, “And yet, despite all your wit, you still fell under the lure of a mad tyrant, just like many lesser men before you.”

 

Tyrion was silent, only the erratic beat of his heart registering to him. He wanted to protest, to scream that that wasn’t how it had been, that Daenerys hadn’t always been mad, she had had potential to be a great ruler, but the infuriatingly present voice inside him spoke, asking him, _wasn’t it?_ A pretty face had fooled him more than once before and he knew it. Even though Sansa’s words were spoken with the intention to wound and burn, that that didn’t mean there wasn’t also a kernel of truth to them. He continued to face her, refusing to be craven in hearing the charges she levelled against him with her steely glare.

 

“And why? You’re just like Jon, so beguiled with the Dragon Queen that you couldn’t see what was right before your eyes until it was too late, too taken with her beauty and grace to see the insanity kindling within. You speak of me tricking you, giving you knowledge with the intent to hurt your precious _Queen._ ” Sansa sighed then, her voice changing from frigid tones into something more dispirited.

 

It made Tyrion’s heart clench tightly to hear it.

 

“But the truth is, I’ve never been able to influence your decisions. Not when we were married, and not when I told you about Jon.” Rising from her seat, Sansa stopped a mere three steps before him. He could be pressed beside her in four. “And the truth is that I told you of Jon because I trusted your council, _and_ because I knew you’d do the right thing if she threatened him, so long as you were aware of all the relevant knowledge.” He felt like her gaze could pierce his very soul at this moment, and realised as he returned her stare that he was being found wanting. “Goodnight, Lord Tyrion.” She finished, the sleeves of her black, fur lined gown gently brushing his side as she passed.

 

Tyrion wasn’t sure what he thought at this moment, his mind continuing to replay the harsh words each of them had spoken this night, and her judgement of him in turn. Why bring up marriage with the girl? He furiously questioned, and yet, _she didn’t deny your claims, did she?_ Another part of him replied back. _Sansa Stark and Robin Arryn, was there ever a so unevenly matched pair in all the Kingdoms? The girl deserves better, she needs someone to watch out for her interests, that’s all I was trying to do,_ Tyrion told himself. He didn’t even half believe the weak motivation his mind was trying to spin, but he repeated it to himself nonetheless as he seated himself on the marble bench the girl had not long vacated.

 

The sun was beginning to rise, the birds chirping their morning songs when a plan began to form in Tyrion’s mind, something that might aid the Lady Brienne in her troubles. While he could acknowledge the aid that drink had had in constructing his plan, he didn’t feel it was any the worse off for its influence. _Indeed,_ he admitted to himself, _without the drink I might have been unable to produce such a plan to begin with._ And oh, it was a glorious plan indeed! It was something that might finally bring his dim-witted brother home from whatever torturous exile he had planned for himself, should he succeed. _And you’ll finally be doing something._ There would be a price to pay for them all should his plan fail of course, but at present, it seemed the best action to take moving forward. He only hoped that when he approached her with it, Ser Brienne would agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the edits I made that somehow didn't save were better than some of the ones in the re-edited cut. Ah well. Unbeta'd as always, apologies for any mistakes that managed to slip through the cracks.


	4. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to give a special thank you to ginar369, we’ve had a cracking chat about aspects I chose to include in the fic, and she was a brilliant help in me squaring down the timeline for an important aspect in this story without me having to go too much into research mode! (Something that has happened once or twice for things in this fic to try and make it seem more “realistic”) 
> 
> As always I write this without a beta, so any mistakes are my own and I apologise for ahead of time. I also just want to thank everyone who was kind enough to leave a review last chapter and check out my story, I hope you'll enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think of it!

Sansa slammed the door and fastened the latch swiftly behind her, turning to press her back flush against the thick, splintering wood as she focused on smoothing out her erratic breathing, her concentration solely on getting it steady, under control. _Ladies don’t cry over small trifles,_ she told herself viciously, _if Tyrion wants to act the cruel Lannister Imp that people presume him to be then let him, it means nothing to me. He means nothing to me. Nothing._ The problem was, even as her mind spewed those vicious words, in her heart she knew them to be false. If he truly meant nothing to her, she wouldn’t have just acted like such a foolish twit in the gardens before him. _My behaviour was more innkeeping with that of a jealous little maiden, so confused over why her sweet smiles and coy words don’t make the man she desires desire her back,_ she berated. She was past such petty displays. She had to be, her role demanding she act the part of a Lady at all times, especially as she was now head of a great House, and all her actions would be judged doubly harsh considering the gender she belonged to.

 

But her mind couldn’t help returning to the uneasy realisation she had acknowledged as she vacated the gardens, her eyes truly open now to all the signs that had been before her since the reunion with her one-time Lord Husband. She would look that truth square in the face, she vowed, refusing to ignore the feelings she now recognised inside herself. _I desire him,_ her mind whispered in awe. She could almost howl at the thought, the fact that she, Sansa Stark of Winterfell, could admit the desire she felt for the most lecherous man in all the Kingdoms and yet remain unable to act upon such emotions, when the last time she had resided in Kings Landing acting on her desire would have been unequivocally welcomed. The thought was like a bitter potion coating her insides, making them noxious. Had it really been just a few short years ago when she’d reviled the man, vowing to hate him always, and wishing for nothing more than to be Sansa Stark again? Her sister would think it a great jest, the young, beautiful wolf wanting the small, scarred, aging lion.

 

But not everything concerned the mere outer appearance, of that much she was certain. That day in the gardens when Margaery had expressed her belief that Lord Tyrion was actually rather good looking she had scoffed, confused as to why her friend would make such a ridiculous statement, later becoming certain it was merely an attempt to try and assuage Sansa’s feelings on the match forced upon her. Everyone knew Tyrion’s brother, Ser Jaime Lannister, was the one who had received all the graces of the Gods. But a small part of her couldn’t help but acknowledge that in the right light, when his smile was free and open there was something quite pleasing about his features, even if she could only recognise the truth of that statement within her own mind at the time.

 

As the weeks after their marriage passed uneventfully, those good feelings had only grown. In truth, it was her memories of their time together that helped to sustain her as she suffered through her tormented marriage to Ramsay. In those dark days, she would escape into herself, all other possible forms of oblivion denied to her, locked in her chambers as she had been. But she still found ways to defy him, reliving her memories of happier times at Winterfell. Those nights when his only purpose was to make Sansa suffer excruciating pain, she instead relived the mornings where she sewed cushions with her Septa and Jeyne Poole, or her afternoons that had been filled with childish teasing’s between herself and Arya. When he would take the belt decorated with spikes to the naked flesh of her back, she reminisced on the warm hugs her father and mother would often bestow to her, or the cup of mulled wine Robb would sneak out to her as they talked companionably by the fire on special occasions. She found herself escaping to other memories too more often than she would have anticipated, returning to that short time in Kings Landing when she hadn’t been Sansa Stark any longer, but Lady Lannister instead.

 

She hadn’t been happy then, exactly. How could she be when she was naught but a prisoner? But she had been fortunate, some measure of contentment accompanying her days, no matter how small it may have been. There was a measure of appreciation for that time too, she acknowledged, in someone treating her well for her own sake rather than taking advantage of her naivety and purity so they could use her for all her name could gain them. She never knew how precious it was, the fact Tyrion had treated her so decently, not until her experiences after leaving Kings Landing truly highlighted the level of cruelty she would have been exposed to had she been forced to marry Joffrey as planned rather than his uncle. In truth, she always felt that her first betrothed and her second husband would have been close companions, the pair of them likely to have fed off the others sadistic nature to feed their own.

 

Outside of her family and Brienne, Tyrion was the only person to have treated her with any true affection, despite the fact he had every reason not to do so. As much as she had loved Margaery, when she looked back it was painfully obvious that Sansa had been nothing more than a bartering chip in her machinations against Cersei. At the time, she’d been so desperate for companionship that she’d purposefully ignored what was obvious to everyone around her. She might have acted like a stupid little girl in front of others, but even then, she’d been aware of the pressure Tyrion must have faced from his Lord Father to place a baby in her belly. And yet, he’d been kind when he could have easily been cruel. Where he could have pressed his husbandly rights on her he’d instead resisted, left the decision to her, something she could never fully appreciate until her second wedding night.

 

And how did she return his kindness? She’d spurned him. Every time he had tried to connect with her, she had been cold and unyielding like the Wall, and yet he had never stopped trying. A part of her always appreciated that fact, even while she hated him for having the last name Lannister. It was quite ironic to Sansa that now they were returned to the place where their marriage had begun it was Tyrion who was distancing himself from her instead.

 

Drifting towards her feather bed, Sansa began working on the ties of her gown, loosening the dark material. She was angry with him, of course she was, but a part of her was angrier at herself, angry that she allowed so much of her emotions to show. Emotions were dangerous things, when Ramsay-

 

Her hands stilled then; the tremors barely visible to anyone but herself as numerous nights at his disposal flashed through her mind. It was several seconds before she continued loosening her ties. When she was married to that man, any expression that acknowledged the pain he was inflicting on her was dangerous, seeming to delight rather than repulse him. He’d get even more vicious, slicing deeper into the soft curves of her body at the slightest provocation, her screams like sweet songs to his ears. The methods of torture only seemed to subside in the times she remained quiet, almost uninterested in the torment he was inflicting on her body. _He liked a vocal participant,_ Sansa recalled, _what’s the point of mutilating someone if their reactions are identical to those you’d get from a corpse?_

 

She would find herself repeating anecdotes from her mother in those excruciating moments, words she’d heard but never had much reason to pay mind to until then. _A Lady remains cool and collected, Sansa,_ her mother would admonish after another sisterly spate with Arya, _men have swords and armour to keep them safe, Ladies only have their manners and wits. A good Lady and a good wife will refuse to rush to anger, even in the face of higher provocation than what your sister presents you with. She knows she has other tools at her disposal to express herself. Do you understand that, sweetling?_

 

Even when she’d arrived at Castle Black, Sansa had lived by those words, letting the child die and the Lady be born. They had kept her in good stead since then, helping her build the façade she used to communicate with people outside her home, people she could never truly trust. Northmen were only loyal in times of peace; Southerners always had ulterior motives; those were lessons she was keen to remember as Queen. She had been sure nothing could uproot the emotionless veneer she had adopted as Lady Stark of Winterfell. Nothing, that is, until her spat with the Lord of Casterly Rock this evening. She could rage to the Old Gods and the New that even after so many years apart, the man still knew how to read her, that he still knew which soft parts of her his words would be able to inflict the most pain upon.

 

Dressed now in just her shift, Sansa placed her gown on the padded chair she liked to sew in, her eyes lighting up on the kerchief she had been embroidering just that afternoon. She had intended it as a gift to be given tomorrow evening, before her brothers Coronation could take place the day after next. If Tyrion accepted the gift, it would be a sign of their continued good-will and friendship, or so she told herself. But even when she was sewing it, Sansa knew a part of herself must have realised she had more romantic intentions than what she was leading herself to believe. _A woman doesn’t gift a man a favour purely as an act of friendship,_ her mind reprimanded. She’d told herself that if Tyrion hadn’t taken the gift, her emotions wouldn’t be too bruised and ultimately it was an unimportant act. She was leaving for the North soon after the Coronation anyway and time apart would distance any awkward feelings a denial of her gift would have engendered.

 

Lifting the kerchief from the place she had rested it upon, the pattern folded over from any prying eyes, Sansa opened the fabric square to view the neat, evenly spaced stitches she had laboured over. While inspecting her work, she felt the wash of idiocy pour over her like a rain shower. It seemed she was still that stupid girl who had never left Winterfell, thinking her life could contain something joyful, something purely hers rather than accepting it for what it was and what it would soon become once a crown was placed on her very own head when she returned North. Crushing the favour in her hand, she slowly walked towards the fire burning low in the hearth, and before she could question her decision her hand opened up, dropping the crumpled kerchief into the waiting flames. She stood there, watching as the soft cotton was consumed, the favour she had worked tirelessly over to create gone in several quick seconds as the flames licked at every inch of the material.

 

She was lifting the covers of her featherbed when it occurred to her that someone must have spoken rumours about her for Tyrion to believe she’d be contemplating a match to her cousin Robin in the first place. In truth, even if Robin was the only man willing to take her after her colourful history, she would still refuse to marry him. Memories of her time with him at the Eyrie swam through her mind, and while she wished him well, she could never stop herself from seeing him as that petulant little boy he had been when he destroyed the snow castle she had so painstakingly put together. _Who would spread such ridiculous gossip in the first place?_ She wondered, but in truth, she knew it was likely Lord Royce. She appreciated his council, that much was true, but for Tyrion to think his word on her plans was more reliable than her own distressed her more than she could have anticipated. She knew she would have to have strict words with Lord Royce, that she’d have to instil deeply in him that a match between herself and her cousin was inconceivable. Clearly, she hadn’t done a well enough job of it the last time they had spoken. He’d already approached her about a match to Robin since they had both arrived at the Red Keep, in fact, and she had already shot the suggestion down more than once, with several good reasons as to why it wouldn’t work between herself and his Liege Lord. _He is the Lord of the Vale, I am the Lady of Winterfell, it would be unfair to leave one of our castles perpetually unmanned by their Liege-Lord or Lady in the event of a union... I am Queen in the North; I couldn’t afford to marry someone of equal station to me in case they pressed their claim over my position as Queen... I am several years older than Robin, he would do better to find a Lady wife closer to his own age and from the Vale, to help reunite those under his command and solidify their loyalty..._ She had used every reason she could think of to deter Lord Royce from the idea of a match between them, every idea except the one she felt most dearly, _I could never respect him. And if I can never respect him, how could you expect me to love him and be a good Lady Wife?_

 

In truth, marriage was the topic she loathed most of all when she contemplated what was to come in her future, the weight of it pressing tightly on her chest every time thought of all the empty rooms in the family wing of Winterfell, and the expectation on her to fill them. Tossing and turning, Sansa didn’t receive much if any rest that evening, and on the rare occasions she did dream, she found herself being chased by haunting green eyes that saw more than they had any right to see.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

Despite the heavy, darkened smudges marring the space under her eyes the next morning and the untidy braid she had placed her red locks into, Sansa was still prompt in meeting Brienne in the corridor that would lead them towards the Maesters dungeons. Recognising the signs that meant her friend was about to enquire after her wellbeing, signs she was very familiar with since her short stay at Castle Black, Sansa spoke up before Brienne was able to release her worries into the world.

 

“Before you ask, I am perfectly well, Brienne, barring a broken night’s sleep. My appearance has been better, that I’ll grant you, but I’d prefer you not worry yourself about me and allow me to care for you, in this instance at the very least.” Seeing Brienne concede to Sansa’s request, she continued. “Before we go down to the Maesters rooms, are you sure you wish me to accompany you to your meeting with Maester Tarly?” She questioned, wanting to be sure she wasn’t overstepping her bounds, friend or no.

 

“My lady-” Catching herself, and with a little flicker of irritation crossing her features at her instinctual formality, Brienne corrected, “Sansa, you are the closest thing I have to kin in this world outside of my father. I will accept any assistance you are willing to give.” She concluded, before resolutely going down the steep stone steps, trusting Sansa to follow.

 

Taking the steps carefully after her, Sansa’s heart swelled at hearing herself described thus by Brienne. While she still had her own sister who she loved her dearly, she had grown much closer to Brienne through the experiences that had helped shape and mould them until this moment. It wasn’t quite so easy with Arya, despite the substantial effort made on both their parts to forge a more natural feeling relationship. As such, it made her feel warm to know her own feelings for the strong woman she had grown to deeply admire and respect were not exaggerated beyond natural bounds. It wasn’t long before they reached the bottom, the air thick with the smell of potions emanating from the room beyond. Brienne gave a loud knock on the new Grand Maesters door, her hand steady as she did so.

 

“Enter.” A muffled voice called from within.

 

Brienne pressed her palm against the door, giving it a gentle push inwards.

  
“Lady Brienne, Lady Sansa.” Samwell Tarly greeted, a strange, metal rod held tight between his teeth as he stood over a boiling pot, jars filled with gelatinous liquids precariously held in each plump hand.

 

“If this is a disagreeable time-” Brienne grimaced, motioning towards the entrance they had just stepped through as if to leave.

 

Sam quickly set the jars down, motioning for them to come further into the room and rest in the chairs before his work desk. “Now is as good a time as any, Lord Commander, Lady Stark. Please, tell me what I can do for you?” He asked, taking his seat behind the desk, his hands moving the scrolls and offcuts of paper aside.

 

“I’m not sure how to word this beyond the simple fact of the matter, Samwell.” Brienne started, making Sansa’s eyebrow quirk at the ease in which Brienne interacted with the former black brother. _Although it shouldn’t surprise me,_ she realised, _they are both on the small council, and I imagine using everyone’s titles throughout the meetings would become grating rather quickly._ “I think I’m with child, and as Maester to the Keep, I was hoping you would be able to confirm or deny my suspicions.”

 

Samwell was quiet for several moments, a dawning look of understanding and pity crossing his features as he looked squarely at Brienne. It made Sansa grit her teeth tightly to hold in her comments. Brienne didn’t deserve pity, she deserved respect for facing hard truths directly on like any soldier would. She doubted many other so-called Knights would be as brave as her friend.

 

“Is anyone else aware beyond yourself and Sansa?” He asked, gathering some of the scrolls on his desk before gesturing at Brienne’s middle. “How about the father? Or your father? With marriage no longer outlawed to Kingsguard, surely you could-”

 

“There is nothing to tell anyone as of yet, and I’ve come to you for answers, Maester Tarly, not suggestions on what I should do in this situation. If I am with child, I’ll be forced to resign my position as Lord Commander and return to Tarth until the birth, as I’m sure King Bran would decree. But until I know for sure, I would much prefer your opinion, rather than your advice.” Brienne bit off, her face becoming expressionless while her cheeks flamed a vivid shade of pink.

 

Sansa could tell Samwell Tarly was feeling deep unease as he suddenly realised how greatly he had overstepped his bounds, acting more like a friend than a Maester in that moment. _He’s hardly had time to learn his trade,_ Sansa acknowledged, _he hasn’t even completed his chain yet._ In truth, Sansa felt her brother’s decision to make Samwell Tarly Grand Maester of the Red Keep was an odd one, and as of yet she was still waiting to be persuaded otherwise. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t make an adequate Maester one day, she was sure he would be perfectly acceptable in the role. But it was also becoming steadily apparent that the young man before them was completely out of his depth when it came to fulfilling a role men were usually not awarded until they’d obtained at least twenty years of experience in their craft, and that was after spending several long and gruelling years crafting their chain.

 

Clearing his throat and bringing a fresh piece of paper and quill towards him, Sam stared at Brienne, a professional veneer beginning to replace the discomfiture he had been exhibiting only moments before.

 

“I’ll ask the questions, and I’ll need you to tell me all the answers you can, in as much detail as possible, Lord Commander. It’s vital that no factor goes neglected if we are to get as thorough picture on your condition as possible.”

 

Samwell would make a fine Maester, Sansa admitted, admiring the skill in which he manoeuvred Brienne so he could discover all the facts he needed to know. _He is exceedingly gifted with people,_ she acknowledged, noting how he made sure to keep his questions specific, his tone unobtrusive, asking things of Brienne in a way that greatly reminded Sansa of her father making enquiries of his guardsmen. After his initial nerves, he made sure to gather more detail than Sansa had realised was relevant, asking Brienne questions on her moon cycle, when she had last been intimate with her companion, the ingredients she had used in the Tansy tea she had taken, how often she had taken it, how long the tea had been left to steep, all the while scrawling away with his quill on paper. Afterwards, his questions began altering, and Samwell began to enquire about any changes Brienne had noticed physically, whether she had developed feelings of sickness, if those feelings were connected to certain foods or in general and whether she had noticed any signs of increased lethargy, all without the judgment a woman could usually expect to receive from such an enquiry while still being unwed.

 

When his questions drew to a close, Maester Tarly began explaining that while Tansy tea, if taken properly and at the right doses might preclude women from getting with child most times, in general it was a highly unreliable potion, too dependent on outside factors like the health of the lady taking it or when the herbs used in the tea had been picked. He continued on to describe, rather animatedly, the several most popular methods used for discovering whether a woman was indeed with child, and why in his opinion they would be meaningless to test with, explaining several irrefutable facts against using these methods as an indicator, citing their heavy unreliability and sometimes relative lack of safety.

 

“When we first discovered Gilly was with child again, I made sure to research all I could on the topic.” He confided, a clear joy in his face as he talked of his beloved. “While some procedures may produce positive results on a more accurate scale, they contain no real logic to them and as such I would be loath to recommend trying them. We actually used the wheat and barley experiment early into Gilly’s term, and the results concluded a negative result.” Samwell shook his head at that, as if he couldn’t understand how his craft had failed him so miserably. “In fact, were you aware that one of the most unreliable experiments used is still extremely popular in Pentos and involves the use of onions being placed in the most unnatural of places inside the Lady in question?” He explained, making a face of mild revulsion. “As such, the best I can do is surmise with all the knowledge you’ve given me. But with all you have stated, I am extremely confident in my diagnosis.” Sam revealed, his tone seeming to be mildly apologetic.

 

“I understand Samwell, and I trust your opinion. How likely is it that I’m expecting a babe?” Brienne voiced; her hands balled up tightly in her lap.

 

“Well, in my professional opinion I’d have to surmise it to be more likely than not. I’m almost completely confident in a positive diagnosis of you being with child, Lord Commander. A woman may miss one month of her cycle, perhaps even two. But it’s highly unlikely she would reach the point of nearly missing three cycles, combined with your symptoms and not be expecting a babe.” He finished.

 

“How far along would you judge her to be, Maester Tarly?” Sansa cut in after several moments when she saw Brienne was too stunned to answer.

 

 _Its one thing suspecting the truth,_ Sansa realised, _but its another for an outside source to confirm it, bringing life to the thought._

 

“My best estimate is perhaps nine or ten weeks, taking into consideration all the details you provided. It won’t be long before you start to show, my Lady. Some of the symptoms you are currently experiencing will subside, meanwhile others will soon worsen. I’d like you to keep visiting me, to confirm nothing untoward is happening with the growing process, if you wish to carry on with the childbearing. If for whatever reason, this is something you feel unable to continue with, we would need to discuss your options and arrange for the tea to be made as soon as possible, so as to avoid any lasting damage from the process.” Sam finished awkwardly.

 

Sansa observed Brienne clutching her abdomen at Samwell Tarly’s last comment, unconscious of the movement her hands had made. Seeing her do the same, she saw the realisation and respect pass the Maesters face when he realised moon tea would not be a necessary part of their future meetings.

 

“That will not be necessary, Maester Tarly.” Brienne quickly informed him. “I must bid you good day. It’s important I leave to go help attend to further preparations for the festivities tomorrow. Thank you for your time.” She finished stiltedly, leaving the room before Tarly could make further comment.

 

Following diligently behind her friend, Sansa felt downhearted when Brienne thanked her for her company upon reaching the hall she had first greeted her in earlier that morning. Accompanying Brienne to her appointment with the Maester was nothing, it wouldn’t stop her friend from receiving ample derision and disgust everywhere she went once her condition began to show. And as far as she was aware Tyrion was no closer to generating an answer than would help Brienne than he had been that first day she had spoken to him of her suspicions concerning her friend.

 

She had already sent men she felt were relatively trustworthy to ride down to every dock between Gulldown and Sunspear for information as soon as the whispers reached her about Jaime Lannister’s miraculous survival. _Although,_ she acknowledged, _while Tyrion hasn’t stated whether the rumours are true or false, I know him well enough to recognise that his method of avoiding my questions is quite meaningful. In fact, I’d say it is his way of confirming my suspicions without the guilt of breaking whatever promise he has made to his brother._

 

However, Sansa still couldn’t help but feel a ferocious anger when her mind moved to Jaime Lannister. She had never thought much of the Knight, not since he had helped murder Jory and her fathers’ other guards, but over time, as the rumours of his unnatural relationship with Cersei had surfaced her opinion of him had sunken lower than she could have imagined possible. The only thing that had her questioning her suspicions had been when Brienne had stood up to speak to the mans honour, an action that had opened up her friend to extreme ridicule among the older Knights who were present for her declarations that the Kingslayer was a man who could be trusted, a man with honour. And what had he done to repay that act of friendship and solidarity? He had taken her friends maidenhood, leaving her heartsore and alone in Winterfell with a bastard growing in her belly. All so he could die with his tyrant of a twin? She couldn’t come to terms with it, with the man she knew Jaime Lannister to be, and the man both Tyrion and Brienne claimed he truly was.

 

If it was down to her, Sansa would find a man worthy of Brienne and make the match herself, but in truth she knew her friend would rather go through this world with her name and reputation tarnished than marry a stranger she could never love. And of course, even if that were possible, even if Brienne was willing to concede to an arranged union, there were plenty of risks to such an arranged marriage that some people rarely considered. Why, it wasn’t unheard of in the South for some men to kill the bastard newborns of their wife in the crib to ensure their own offspring would succeed in getting the inheritance their wife possessed instead. As such, Sansa was left with very little options to help Brienne in her predicament. _But perhaps… yes, perhaps there is something I could do after all?_ It wasn’t much, but she knew she had to try. It wouldn’t eliminate the behaviour of others completely, but it might help soften the blow until Tyrion could succeed in helping Brienne by finally bringing his brother home.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------

  
The lights were dim in the chamber, she observed, as she noiselessly entered her brothers’ room. The hour was late, but not too late as to be socially unacceptable, the evening meal concluded one-hour past. Sansa noted the glass of wine placed nearest the empty chair by the hearth, her brother facing the chair, his back to the door.

 

“What is it you wish to discuss this evening, Sansa?” Bran enquired before Sansa could alert him to her presence.

 

Walking further into the room, and ensuring the door was latched behind her so as to avoid any unfortunate interruptions while she had delicate matters to discuss with him, she seated herself in the empty chair before focussing on her reply.

 

“Have you managed to speak to Jon today? Is he faring any better of late?” She questioned. This was something she had begun asking regularly since her brother had been made King, and as a result was allowed regular access to the room their cousin was residing in.

 

Bran stared into her eyes for several moments, his face as impassive as it had ever been before forming his reply.

 

“The improved accommodations have helped his body recover from the battle. The dust in the air was beginning to have an adverse effect on his lungs, sat in it each day before we moved him. Of course, I don’t think he’ll be faring any better in spirit until the Unsullied set sail and he can return to the Wall, but you already know this from our previous discussions.” Bran stated mildly.

 

“Have you changed your mind about his appearance at the coronation?” Sansa questioned, all the while knowing what her brothers answer would be.

 

“It’s best if he remains out of sight until the Dothraki and Unsullied leave Westeros. Our agreement with them will only hold if they feel he is truly being punished. Attending a celebration would not be considered fit punishment for killing their Queen.” Bran stated, “And I also believe that’s what he wants, too. He’s still barely spoken a word since plunging a dagger into Daenerys Targaryen’s heart.”

 

Sansa nodded her head at her brother’s words, she had expected a reply such as this, but even so, she had to ask, to make certain. You could never be sure what whim might change a decision Bran had previously made. They carried on their discussion in much the same manner for some time, Sansa questioning her brother on policies he had mentioned interest in implementing, coming to agreements on trade deals between the South and the North, confirming all important arrangements for the Coronation on the morrow were made. As they exhausted each topic Sansa began to feel more and more uneasy, well aware that she would soon have to make the true intent of her visit clear.

 

“Now, should we discuss what you truly came here to ask of me?” Bran queried, making Sansa snap her head up from the goblet in her hand to meet his clear gaze.

 

“And what is it you think I wish to discuss with you, dear brother?” She questioned in turn, used to his strange ways by this point, but still wanting confirmation from him that he truly knew her intent in visiting him this evening.

 

“The Lord Commander.” Bran stated expressionlessly.

 

“Can I be sure of your discretion before our conversation goes any further?” She queried, wanting to confirm her brother’s integrity before breaking her friend’s confidence again.

 

Bran nodded in the affirmative.

 

“Are you aware of Ser Brienne’s… condition?”

 

“I am. Why else do you think I implemented the change to the Kingsguard so rapidly into my reign?”

 

She couldn’t believe it.

 

“You knew, even then?” She exclaimed without expecting an answer, her temper flaring slightly. “What else do you know?”

 

“Many things. But you aren’t here to discuss the things I know. I believe you had a question for me instead.” Bran pressed.

 

Smoothing her skirts, Sansa looked her brother square in the eye before proceeding. “I do. Since Brienne’s condition has been confirmed, I’m here to ask you to legitimise her child upon his or her birth.” Her hands began balling into fists as she explained, “It isn’t anything I would not do myself as Queen in the North, but Brienne is from the South, her child’s inheritance is Southern and the Lords surrounding Tarth are unlikely to accept any form of legitimisation that comes from a Northerner, especially from a Northern Queen.”

 

Bran tilted his head, his gaze going distant before confirming, “Your presumptions are entirely correct, Sansa. Ours is not a world receptive to change. But I’m sorry to say I’ll be unable to do as you ask.” He finished.

  
  
_You don’t look very sorry to me,_ Sansa thought venomously as she noted the lack of change in her brothers features since stepping into the room some time ago. If anything, he looked like the conversation was of complete disinterest to him.

 

“And why not?” She replied instead, careful to try and keep her anger from showing. _A Lady’s armour is her manners and wit,_ her mind recalled.

 

“Simply put, it will soon become unnecessary to do so.” He stated, Bran’s tone remaining frustratingly flat.

 

“What is it you aren’t sharing with me?” Sansa pressed, finding herself furious _and_ vexed with Bran, just as she was most times she conversed with her brother since reuniting.

 

“There are many things that wouldn’t be wise for me to share, Sansa, especially for those most involved.” Bran replied, and Sansa saw the first true inkling of feeling in her brothers face since his return south of the Wall. But then it was gone so quick, dipping under the surface of vacancy again that she was unsure if it had ever truly been there to begin with, or was merely a result of the light across his features. “But you will have your answers in good time, of that I can assure you.”

 

She couldn’t stand it anymore, her frustrations and the pain of the last few hours boiling over into a question she had never intended to give sound to.

 

“You say all these things, Bran, you ensure that we all understand you’re merely a vessel now to connect us to our past, and as such cannot speak of things that might influence the present. But here’s a question for you to consider, one I don’t expect to receive an answer for. How much of you is truly the Three Eyed Raven, and how much is still my brother, still Bran, merely doing all he can to distance himself for all that happened since going North of the Wall?”

 

She saw her brother straightening in his chair as she asked the question, his gaze becoming, if possible, even more piercing while he examined her with a burning intensity. It was the only hint that her enquiry had agitated him at all. The fire that had pushed Sansa to question her brother had died out upon seeing his reactionless expression, her voice merely becoming plaintive as she voiced her next query.

 

“What happened to you in the North, Bran? I know you weren’t alone, that the young Reed girl and her brother went with you, yet only one returned, or so I heard. Do you not have the slightest feeling towards her after all the assistance she gave you, losing her own brother in the process? Have you even sent a raven to check nothing untoward happened to her while she travelled back to Greywater Watch?” _Surely my brother isn’t so cold and detached as to not even care about the fate of his friend? Three Eyed Raven or not, I refuse to believe the man sitting before me is entirely without emotion._

 

It was some time before Bran deemed her worthy of a reply, and in truth Sansa had almost given up hope of hearing him speak again while in his presence this evening. She hadn’t expected an answer when she voiced her question, truly she hadn’t, but that didn’t stop her from hoping for one nonetheless.

 

“Meera Reed is well, safe at home with her father.” Bran stated, eyes distant and unseeing as he continued, “I look in on her, from time to time. She is content to be home, surrounded by familiar things. She is far happier at Greywater Watch than she would have been had she remained by my side.” He finished before asking his question of Sansa. “And what about you, Sansa? Will you be happy, alone in the North? When the time comes for you to take a husband and raise a family, will you still be satisfied with the choices you made, or will you wish you had been braver and taken a risk with your life?”

 

Feeling her face reddening, Sansa half rose from her chair before her brothers next question pulled her up short, making her slope back into her seat as she pondered the answer herself.

 

“Will the new marriage you invariably make be a marriage of love or a marriage of duty?”

 

The words came to her and were pushing through her lips before she could truly debate the veracity of them.

 

“I am no longer interested in love, dear brother. Marrying for love is something that only happens in the melodies sang by singers, and often leads to a painful and bloody end. I have no need of something like that in my future.” She stated, her declaration closing her off from any further questioning for the moment.

 

Her brother continued to watch her, almost to the point of it being uncomfortable, the room silent between them save for the crackling of the thick logs in the grate. Sansa was just considering saying her farewells when she heard a sound, so low and whispering she wasn’t truly sure it was her brother or the logs she had heard.

 

“I wouldn’t be too certain of that.”

 

It was hushed between them for a long time after that statement, both lost in their own thoughts concerning the evenings discussion, their mind focussing on people who had meant more to them than they had ever been able to express during a time when such expressions would have been welcomed.

 

\----------------------------------------------------

 

Surprisingly, the Coronation took place without incident. Several representatives from the Southern and Northern Houses were present for the ceremony, young branches and old, far more of them making the journey to the Capital than anyone already present had anticipated, in fact. While most of the Lords in attendance seemed relatively grateful to be beginning a new chapter in their Kingdom’s history, Sansa still detected a few whispered words about the ridiculousness of being beholden to a cripple and a dwarf. Choosing to observe those men closer during the ceremony, she surmised their words were naught but hot air and exacerbated by the consumption of alcohol making them bold, and as such she was willing to let the matter rest… for now.

 

Everyone had dressed in their best finery for the occasion, Tyrion even choosing to shave off his behemoth of a beard for propriety’s sake. She favoured him being clean shaven, it helped to remind her of simpler times past and made reading him easier, or so she’d have thought. She’d already caught him glancing in her direction several times as the newly nominated High Septon went through the process of anointing her brother before them all, and yet Tyrion’s face remained mostly neutral when she glimpsed him.

 

She still found the process of anointing her brother in the Light of the Seven mildly ridiculous; her brother was from a devout Northern house after all, and everyone knew the North kept to the Old Gods. But still, it had been agreed by Bran’s High Council that for the good of the peace they were fostering in the Six Kingdom’s he’d be expected to follow the Gods of the people he was ruling, at least for the present moment. _He’s also part Tully,_ Davos Seaworth had pointed out, making his anointment in the Light of the Seven more acceptable among the Northerners also in attendance this day once they were reminded of the fact. He wasn’t spurning their Gods, not truly. In private, Sansa and Bran had already come to an agreement that when the realm settled enough to allow her brother to travel beyond the confines of Kings Landing and visit Winterfell, they would have a smaller, more intimate ceremony in the presence of their heart trees eyes, neither of them wanting to snub the old Gods they had also prayed to since childhood.

 

Seeing Tyrion valiantly make his way through the crowds to reach her once the ceremony had come to a close and while Bran was still accepting congratulations and gifts from the Lords of each house present, Sansa felt herself flushing both hot and cold. He was levelling a small, tense smile towards her, the lines around his eyes taut with stress. A small, vicious part of her whispered she should turn away, escape into the throng of people gathering to discuss the start of a new era, _let him suffer slightly longer just as I have been these past two days,_ her mind suggested. But that was not the way of a Lady, she was to be officially appointed as Queen once she arrived back at Winterfell, and she would not act like a child in front of this man, or any other who may displease her in the future. _It isn’t the way of a Lady, and it certainly isn’t the way of a Queen._

 

He reached her side after several more moments, Sansa holding her spine tall and proud as she surveyed the anxiety clear in his eyes.

 

“The attendance at the Coronation is impressive considering how late we had to send out the ravens, wouldn’t you agree my Lady?” Tyrion inquired, his face still possessing a slightly pinched look to it.

 

“Very impressive, Lord Lannister.” Sansa replied curtly.

 

He sighed at that, his whole demeanour seeming to shrink in on itself slightly before her. _He looks wretched,_ Sansa realised to her surprise.

 

“Lady Sansa, I am well aware I’ve been bereft in my treatment towards you of late. I will make no excuses for it, as no excuse warrants the way I spoke to you in the gardens. I merely offer you my most heartfelt apology for my behaviour, and wish to some day earn back the respect I must have lost with such crass conduct.” He finished, his tones showing how genuinely he meant the words he spoke.

 

Feeling a small, sincere smile form on her features, Sansa made sure to reply swiftly. “I most graciously accept your apology, Lord Tyrion.” She spoke kindly, carrying on quickly before he could reply. “But only on one condition – you will not speak to me as such again. I value your thoughts and the friendship we share, but I vowed to never permit myself to be treated so poorly again without provocation. If you can accept my terms, then I will happily accept your apology.”

 

“Your terms are fair and just, my Lady.” Tyrion replied, his head nodding slowly.

 

Before Sansa could comment on the efforts she knew Tyrion must have gone to in arranging the Hall for such a grand event, she found herself being slowly led to a dark corner of the room by the wide sleeve of her best gown. Before she could question the purpose of Tyrion’s actions, she found herself already in receipt of an answer for them.

 

“Please excuse me for such familiarity, Sansa, but there is something I must ask of you before I need to say my farewells and attend to my other duties.” Tilting her head in the affirmative just so, Tyrion hurriedly continued, “There is an important matter I wish to discuss with you before this evening draws to a close, something I’d rather you hear from me before anyone else. Do I have your permission to visit you in your chambers this evening once the festivities have drawn to a close?”

 

“Of course, Tyrion.” She replied promptly and without question. “It is nothing to be concerned about, is it?” She couldn’t help asking, noticing the harried look still hadn’t left his face.

 

“It depends on who you are asking, I suppose.” Was his mysterious reply, before bowing and taking his leave of her.

 

It was some time later before Brienne approached her, the moon already sitting high in the darkened sky outside the Grand Hall. Sansa couldn’t help but note how sallow her friends face was looking that day, her features waxen throughout the ceremony and proceeding celebrations.

 

“How are you faring, Lord Commander?” Sansa asked amiably, not wanting to mention anything that might concern the lady’s condition in front of such an unknown quantity of people.

 

“As well as can be expected, Lady Sansa.” Was her curt reply.

 

Feeling herself frowning, Sansa couldn’t help but suggest, “If you are beginning to feel unwell, Ser Brienne, then perhaps you would be best taking your leave of the celebrations? I’m sure one of your brothers, Ser Podrick perhaps, would be more than willing to take over command for the rest of the evening?”

 

“That is not necessary, my Lady.” Brienne replied, her face focusing on a group who were drinking excessively and had begun singing bawdy songs in the crowd. “I’m in good health, truly. I just wished to deliver this to you before taking my leave of you this evening. I’ve been away from the King’s side too long as it is.” She finished, before pressing a tightly rolled scroll into her soft hands.

 

Walking away before Sansa could object, she unrolled the small scroll that Brienne had given her, careful to keep the contents private from any prying eyes near her side. She read the missive several times, each time feeling no clearer on what the contents could mean.

 

_There has been an unexpected development regarding the circumstance we discussed yesterday morning. I am unsure if the decision I have made is the correct one, and could use your council on this matter. If possible, I would like to speak with you at your earliest convenience. BT_

 

Several ideas crossed Sansa’s mind regarding the message she was slightly crushing in her hands. Had Brienne lost the baby? But then, if that was the case she wouldn’t need to ask for Sansa’s advice, would she? Perhaps Brienne had been summoned back to Tarth by her father and wished to hear her advice about how to impart the news of her developing condition to her Lord Father? In essence, Brienne could be wanting to discuss a great many things with Sansa, the only thing she could be certain on was that it had to do with the child her friend was carrying inside her.

 

Unfortunately, not an hour past her short encounter with Brienne, Sansa began to sense the feel in the room changing, whispered words spreading from groupings of Lord and Ladies like wildfire. The men were all well into their cups by this point, the celebration dinner for the Coronation having begun several hours earlier, and the wine was still flowing freely. As she moved around the room, interacting with Ladies and Lords she recognised, or ones she would need to exchange ravens with now the North was a sovereign Kingdom, she began to hear little snippets of whispers, _“Surely not, that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard all summer-”_ When they noticed her approach, the comments swiftly died on their lips. _Curious,_ Sansa thought, her eyes travelling up the dais where her brother resided with Tyrion whispering furiously in his ear, his pale face furious. Moving her eyes across the raised platform, she noted Brienne standing flush to the wall almost out of sight, her imposing figure slightly hunched inwards, her gaze looking forward into the room, the expression on her face making it clear she wished to be anywhere else in this moment.

 

Hearing more hurried gossip originating from a darkened corner to her right, Sansa placed herself behind a nearby pillar, holding herself still to listen to the words being hurriedly imparted between the two Ladies.

 

“I’ve heard the wedding is to take place with as little ceremony as possible.” Spoke the stouter of the two women.

 

“I’m not shocked, can you imagine what a display they would make before the High Septon as they exchanged their vows? It was be an insult to the Gods, surely.” The woman with stringy, dull blonde hair croaked out.

 

A third Lady dressed in a slightly more favourable gown soon joined their nattering. “Well I don’t believe a word of it, malicious gossip if you ask me.”

 

“Neigh it isn’t,” Declared the second woman, “I have it on very good authority they’ll be wed within a fortnight, you mark my words on that, Melara.”

 

It was then that Sansa had her answer when a fourth woman joined the group, asking the question racing through her mind at that moment.

 

“Whose getting wed, Laena? I must say, I’ve been hearing all sorts of ridiculous rumours-”

 

“Why the Lannister dwarf of course!” The stout woman exclaimed before the other could finish her sentence, “He’s marrying that beast of a Lady Kingsguard, Brienne of Tarth!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... so honest show of hands, how many of you were expecting Tyrion's plan to be *that*?
> 
> A lot of you have said you enjoy the characterisations and conversations I’ve done in the fic, I just want to point out I find them hard to write ‘cause I get paranoid about whether they *sound* realistic or not, so hearing that from you guys has really made me feel extremely happy and a lot more confident in writing in several different voices (Tyrion, Brienne, Sansa, Jaime to come? :D) I started this fic thinking maybe I’d only get 100 or so hits, so having so many of you (and several ones of you are return visitors and commenters on each chapter!) interested in the story I’m writing couldn’t mean anymore to me than it already does. Thank you so much for taking the time to let me know what you think, letting me know if there’s an error that’s slipped through so I can correct it, and generally just being so lovely and supportive. I hope I continue to write to a standard that you’ll all enjoy.


	5. Brienne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s give a quick round of applause to my new beta lbswasp who generously offered to help tackle this growing monster of a fic to make it a better read for you all! And trust me, if the growing length each chapter seems to be getting continues, she’ll need a lot of applause for helping me and keeping it all in check.
> 
> I also want to thank Ro_Nordmann for the awesome poster they made for this fic! Its really lovely and very thoughtful, if I can find a way (or someone knows how?) to attach it to the start of the fic, I will. Here's the link to it for anyone wanting to take a look, https://imgur.com/xmyNEvs

Many experiences had helped shaped Brienne’s life in the years since she had last set eyes on Tarth. She’d served a King she had loved, only for him to bleed out in her arms while she was motionless to help. She’d felt true fear for her virtue as a hostage with _him,_ finally realising what poor protection one sword was against a pack of brigands and rapers with nothing on their minds but the wish to cause her pain. Those experiences had taught her many lessons, lessons she continually learned from even now and would continue to use in times to come. It was during her time as a hostage that she’d first seen what a true Knight was. They weren’t the gallant golden hero depicted in her child’s tales, no, a Knight was someone broken and imperfect but at their core _pure._ She had learned much, all of it before she had even achieved the most exhilarating – yet terrifying feat of her life, to have battled dead men who refused to stay underfoot and more than doubled their numbers, and yet she somehow managed to emerge largely unscathed and strong enough to battle on.

 

And yet, in her time she had also experienced heartbreak. Her memories of the last conversation she’d shared with him a raw wound she often felt herself picking at during peculiar times of day, never allowing it to heal over fully. She’d felt the effects of heartbreak deeply, and she could recognise it, it’s marks plain on Sansa’s face as she looked across the room at her now. If someone asked her to explain what it was in that moment that had convinced her of Sansa’s feelings for Tyrion, she would be unable to describe it. But the feeling was a visceral pain in her stomach as she observed the girl. _It’s something about the eyes,_ a part of her realised, as Brienne was powerless to do anything but spectate as the girl she loved like a sister went still as stone, her skin paling to the colour of curdled milk while the goblet gently slipped from her fingers, the wine splattering against the silk of her gown like blood.

 

It took all Brienne had to remain immobile, her muscles aching with tension as she resisted the urges screaming inside her to jump down from the dais and stand before Sansa, to beg for her forgiveness, for Brienne agonised as she realised what had affected Sansa so deeply, and the part she had played in it. She gripped the ornate hilt of Oathkeeper tightly, so tightly she could feel her knuckles almost ready to crack in protest. In truth she’d been tense all night, her stomach aching something fierce as she contemplated the proposition Lord Tyrion had laid at her feet earlier that evening. _Do not think on it, not here,_ she instructed, her eyes tearing forcefully from the retreating back of Lady Sansa while she surveyed the King and the revellers closest to him. She may want to comfort the girl, explain all to her like she had intended, but for now she had a duty to perform, and she wouldn’t be negligent in it, no matter the cost to herself or those she cared for.

 

There had been much discourse between herself and her fellow Kingsguard that afternoon, varying opinions on positions and tactics that should be employed during the ceremony. Daven had been forthright in his belief that they make their position known, to serve as a deterrent to any Lords who might be feeling disgruntled at their new King’s station. Her other Kingsguard brother, and the newest member to join the order, the young Steffon Frey, promoted himself as an affable, quiet young man, while often refusing to express much opinion at all on Kingsguard orders. In truth, the only words of wisdom he deemed worth uttering had been that he would follow the Lord Commander in whatever she felt was best. Somehow, that didn’t make her feel anymore supported, but she kept the derision from her tone when she made her response. It hadn’t gone unobserved among any of them that his tones had expressed what his words did not dare about his stance on there now being a Lady Kingsguard. She could always expect Pod’s backing, of course. But still, there had been reason for concern, and Brienne had to take into account the political aspects her position as Kingsguard demand she acknowledge, demand they all acknowledge in truth. A show of force like Daven suggested would display a huge mistrust in those present – not a good precedent for King Bran’s reign to begin on. But likewise, every threat had to be taken seriously. Time were far from settled and they all knew it. While they had yet to appoint a Master of Whispers to the Small Council, Ser Bronn had proven himself to be more worthy of his newly elevated position than any could have surmised, his ability to mix with the more sordid of fellows who resided in Kings Landing being an unexpected bonus for them all. He had mildly told them at the last meeting that there had been word whispered around the taverns of angry Dothraki, men frustrated at the absence of pillaging and raping they had been forced to abide by following the death of the Dragon Queen.

 

“An acquaintance of mine learned some Dothraki on a job he did once,” Bronn confided to them all. “He says some of the more fearsome riders amongst them view our King as a great prize. They’re making wagers on who can loosen his head from his body first, to absorb his power.” Bronn stated the fact like he was telling them what he had consumed at morning meal, all the while using his dagger to clean the dirt from beneath his fingernails.

 

Of course, that information had caused an uproar among them all, _but words are wind._ It had been decided to be prudent, the Dothraki were soon to be placed on a boat back to their savage lands, and any unprovoked action against them would only lead to more war, something they had all had a bellyful of since King Robert’s death. But it wasn’t just the Dothraki that Brienne was wary of. In truth, she had barely been concerned by their boastful words, knowing how unlikely it was any of them would be able to get close enough to the King to nick him with an arakh, let alone claim his head.

 

She knew how greed could corrupt men, and many a man before them today had been excluded from the decision to make Bran King, she was aware that several of them believed they would make a more worthy monarch than the crippled young man they had been duty bound to bow and swear oaths of fealty to this day.

 

Thinking of Bran, Brienne found her eyes straying from the revellers in the crowd towards her new King. She felt the frown etching itself in her forehead while she observed him. His face was impassive as she had ever seen it, her eyes instead drifted to Lord Tyrion beside him… in truth, Tyrion was the antithesis of the King in this moment, and could be described as nothing less than furious, his cheeks blazing Lannister red, his mouth moving quickly as he whispered secret words to the King that Brienne deeply wished to know the contents of. Nodding his head curtly to the young man, she felt her eyes meet those of her- she felt her eyes meet those of the Hand, and with a twist of his lips that could almost pass for a smile if it didn’t look so pained, she watched as he made his way towards her to exchange brief words. She crouched slightly in preparation for what information he may have to impart on her.

 

“The King has given me leave to address his sister regarding recent… developments.” He finished, his voice pitched low, for her ears only. “Is there any message you would like me to deliver to Lady Stark?” He enquired, his gaze softening minutely upon mention of Sansa.

 

“I feel it might be best I address Sansa myself, Lord Tyrion.” Brienne replied shortly, her face heating as she noted several Ladies with eyes on the pair of them, tittering and gesturing towards them.

 

“As you wish, Lord Commander.” Tyrion concluded before retreating from the hall in pursuit of Lady Sansa.

 

It didn’t escape Brienne’s attention that as Tyrion walked past, Lords and Ladies alike paused in their conversations to stare at him. She was also highly aware of the laughter that barrelled out of the clusters of men and women once he was out of their eyeline. She felt her face begin to burn with the attention that several of those people placed on her as they began observing her reactions with expressions of disgust, hilarity, or curiosity painted quite clearly upon them, uncaring of the notice she levelled plainly back at them.

 

It was undeniable, the news about them had somehow leaked out. Pressing against the wall, and using all the experience she acquired as Kingsguard to Renly, Brienne focussed on making herself invisible, her mind focussing on the orders she had given the other Kingsguard and herself to follow. Observing the revellers in the room, she continued to assess who was the biggest threat at any given moment. She tried to ignore the laughter, the jibes that even now she could hear creeping above the unintelligible din. She had been disparaged repeatedly in the past, why should the words of this evening affect her more than those that had come before them?

 

 _It’s going to be a long night,_ she thought dejectedly, all the while gripping the golden lion hilt of Oathkeeper to avoid pressing a soothing hand against her aching belly.

 

\-------------------------------------------

 

The revelry continued on well into the small hours, the birds had begun chirping their morning serenades long before the last of the drunk Lords retired towards their bedchambers. Brienne’s body ached from spending so long immobile in her armour, something that had never seemed to trouble her, before. Back when she had been Kingsguard for Renly. She had been significantly younger then, eager to please and so very _green._ Everything had seemed like a threat and her muscles had been primed to avoid any possible peril, every danger was prepared for, except the unavoidable one that killed him of course. She had felt great pride in her position, ignorant of the weight of what someone else’s life round her neck had truly meant until she’d failed him. She had never felt tired then, only a great yearning to prove herself. Much had changed since that time. _I wasn’t growing a child inside me then either, how can I serve when in three months’ time I’ll barely be able to unlace my own ties, never mind wear armour?_

 

She had to debrief with her fellow Kingsguard before she would be able to retire with the rest of the castle, despite the urge to collapse on her featherbed and damn any consequences. They had all agreed to exchange any information or insights they had gathered during the ceremony while the particulars were still fresh in their minds. Pod would be the only one absent, his duties not complete for several hours more. They had agreed until the guests in the castle travelled back to their own lands that one of the Kingsguard would remain stationed outside the Kings door at every moment. Pod was chosen because he had been stationed in the same room as Brienne, therefore if he had anything pertinent to inform her about, he would have done it during the celebrations?

 

By the time Brienne concluded their gathering she could feel the exhaustion dragging her down, much like when she had been a child swimming in the rough waves of Tarth’s oceans. However, she still found herself walking the extended route towards her Lord Commander’s quarters, a route that would take her past the rooms of Lady Sansa. Reaching the young woman’s door, Brienne could hear mumbled words from the other side of the room. Noting that nobody else was present in the passageway, she pressed her ear close to the wood, soon hearing murmurings that were increasing in volume. Sansa wasn’t alone then – she couldn’t discern much, but she could tell from the tones it was Lord Tyrion that Sansa was conversing with. The words _duty, heir,_ and _forgiveness_ the only clear expressions to reach her ears. Despite her crippling exhaustion, Brienne abruptly felt wide awake and primed for action. She had suspected Sansa’s feelings ran deeper for Lord Tyrion than what she had made out before this evening, of course, but then, when she’d quizzed her, or tried to move the conversation towards the Lannister heir Sansa would merely give simple, appropriately indifferent answers expected from a Lady of certain breeding. Brienne had come to believe that her musings were merely imaginations created by the small part of her that was still the childish girl of her youth. After all, her only experience of romance had been with _him,_ and that had ended in such a way that she’d be unable to ever leave herself so vulnerable again.

 

She remained there for a few moments more, but the words had become steadily quieter, until nothing else passed through the door. Sparing a moment to feel a modicum of guilt for eavesdropping, Brienne looked again from one side of the passageway to the other before trudging back towards her quarters. Quarters that had once housed the only person impertinent enough to invade her waking thoughts while still managing to continually avoid her dreams.

 

She soon reached her quarters, and once inside it was a quick matter to unfasten her armour, used to the task of removing it alone after the months in Renly’s camp, followed by her time staking out Winterfell for any sign that Lady Sansa needing her aid. While stripping off the clothing under her armour, beginning to exchange them for her sleep-clothes, Brienne couldn’t help but run her hands across the slight swelling that had begun to develop in her middle. She doubted anyone else would have noticed her developing physique, but to her it couldn’t be more obvious. Her stomach would ache from time to time, and if not for assurances from Samwell Tarly that that was to be expected at her current term, she would have fretted it was a sign of something dangerous. She had also observed a heaviness in her breasts and a sickness towards certain foods that had been steadily developing, it made her feel an insecurity in her body she had not experienced since she was a young girl beginning to develop callouses from her practice sword. In truth, she was unsure how much longer she would be able to keep her condition secret for, knowing the King would soon have to be made aware of it, if he didn’t already know somehow. If he chose to remove her from her position as Lord Commander then so be it, she found herself willing to give much up in order to keep the life growing inside of her safe.

 

She was even willing to give up her freedom of choice. Once, that had been something she had held in highest esteem, but when faced with an easier future for her child she found the choice before her a simple one, and a price she would willingly pay every time. It still shocked her to think on Tyrion’s proposal, and the manner in which he had made his intent clear…

 

_It was a mere hour or so before the King’s coronation, and Brienne was a knot of anxiety regarding the ceremony that would soon begin. Despite the fact everything that could be anticipated was anticipated, and indeed, Bran would be aware of any dangers before any of them, Brienne couldn’t help the concern she felt about what could occur. The whispers hadn’t surprised her in the least, the only question was if anyone would act upon their bold words or fade away into insignificance once the influence of ale had worn down. She had purposefully asked to be let alone before the ceremony, intent on checking the sharpness of her blade, reassessing the plans that detailed the positions of the guards, telling herself for the hundredth time that she would not fail in this time in her duties. That’s why it was quite the surprise when a firm, loud, ‘rap-rap-rap’ was knocked against her door. She hadn’t even had time to place her armour on yet, who in all the gods could it be disturbing her?_

 

_Opening the heavy door with a rebuke on her lips, Brienne found her eyes meeting an empty corridor. Lowing them gradually, her face reddened as she saw the smug look twisting Tyrion Lannister’s face at her open expression._

 

_“May I enter, Lord Commander?” He enquired, walking past her before she had a chance to word her reply._

 

_“I’m not entirely satisfied that it’s appropriate for you to be appearing at my chambers for clandestine meetings, my Lord. What is it you’ve come to ask of me that couldn’t have been done in a more appropriate setting?” She asked while closing her door._

 

_“I’m afraid people are already talking, my Lady. How could they not when it entails stories of either the only female Knight, and the first female Lord Commander no less, or the kinslaying, thrice-charged Imp of a Hand?” Pulling out the chair near the fire and placing himself into it, Tyrion continued, “In all actuality, I’d be more concerned if people did not have something to say regarding either one of us. But as to what I have to discuss, now, that’s something that will really get tongues moving.”_

 

_Brienne felt great unease at Lord Tyrion’s words, and was again reminded of the games people liked to play in King’s Landing. He knew how to talk in flowery riddles, a great opponent in the battles of court as she had heard it called before. Give her a sword and something to stab it into any day, anything but this talking round the heart of the matter in meaningless riddles._

 

_“And yet you’ve still failed to answer my question. If its conversation you desire, Lord Tyrion, then you have come to the wrong chambers. Now if you wouldn’t mind…” She trailed off then, her arm raised in the direction of the door he hadn’t long stepped through._

 

_“I see we will have no preamble here.” Was his vague reply, before staring her straight in the face. His body was tense she couldn’t help noting, his arms resting lightly on his thighs, while his hands were held tightly clasped. “The heart of the matter is that I have a proposal for you, Lady Brienne. I’m aware of your current situation.” As he mentioned the word his eyes strayed to her middle, an obvious indication that he was aware of the child she was carrying, his brother’s child. How does he know? “And I would like to ask you to become my Lady Wife.”_

 

_It took several moments of repeating the last twelve words in her mind before they finally started to make sense. His wife? She couldn’t help the old hurt that flared up, and the anger too, anger at being nothing more than a good joke. She had thought better of Lord Tyrion than that. Obviously, she still hadn’t learnt her lesson from the treatment she had received at the hands of his brother._

 

_“I had thought you better than someone who makes such cruel jests, Lord Tyrion.” She spoke coldly, her sword-hand itching to hold Oathkeeper. “If you don’t leave my chambers this instant, I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”_

 

_“My Lady-”_

 

_“Leave.”_

 

_“No.”_

 

_That brought her up short, forcing her to re-examine the scene in front of her. Turning her head slightly to view the small man sat straight backed before her, she was just now noticing the tenseness in his jaw, the lack of laughter about his face. Could he truly be serious? She suddenly felt overcome with faintness. Taking the plush seat Tyrion was motioning to, she looked down at her feet, mind numbing._

 

_“I know how this must sound, Lady Brienne.” Tyrion began, pacing nearby the window now. “But let us both be practical. Neither of us are truly made for marriage.” Her face raised at that, seeing the sadness in his eyes as the statement he made without malice, but also without softness. “We are not the gallant Knight or delicate Lady that they sing of in songs. There might have been a chance for us to be happy, once. But with my brother no longer here, and Sa-” Tyrion stopped at that, his eyes flinty. “You are with child, and that child needs a name other than Storm. Let me be the one to give them that.”_

 

_Brienne spoke the first words that came to mind._

 

_“I cannot marry you. The mere suggestion is ludicrous.” She felt her face colouring as the harshness of her words reverberated round the room._

 

_Tyrion didn’t seem to take any insult at her announcement; indeed, he began laughing instead._

 

_“Yes, the shortest man marrying the tallest woman in all the Kingdoms, that gossip is sure to spread like wildfire. And indeed, so it should. It is a story I’d love to hear, that much I know. But the truth is if you were really concerned about what others thought of you, you wouldn’t be sat her in your current position. You’d be home at Tarth, already wedded, bedded, and expecting your seventh child I’d wager.”_

 

_Brienne felt slightly green at the thought and the image it brought to mind, but nodded her head, once. She’d learnt long ago people would always be laughing at her, so why not take some enjoyment in the role she chose for herself since they would be laughing anyway?_

 

_“I understand your position, my Lord. You don’t feel you’ll ever find yourself a bride again. But are you truly so desperate for a wife that you’d take one such as me?”_

 

_“I don’t expect you to be a wife to me in the traditional sense, my Lady. We would have separate chambers; you’d carry on your service to the King once you were recovered enough from childbirth. I’d give my niece or nephew the Lannister name, something that was denied my brother with his other children.”_

 

_They were silent for a few moments then, different memories coming to mind at the mention of the deceased offspring of the Lannister twins. Brienne was just thinking of the appropriate response when he continued,_

 

_“If, once they reach maturity, you wish to inform them of who their real father is I will not deny you that wish. And in truth…” Tyrion took a deep breath then, his gaze moving to the waning fire, “I’m not doing this for entirely altruistic reasons. I owe Jaime my whole life, and in truth I also owe you. You kept him alive where others would have failed. I gained several valuable years with him because of you.” He smiled gently at her then, “If my brother was here, he would marry you this very minute, of that I have no doubt. I’m not just making this offer for the child you carry; I’m making it because he cannot.”_

 

_“I am not a burden to be cared for, Lord Tyrion.” Brienne managed to choke out, bile rising at the thought of such a marriage, loveless and cold like the ones she had managed to avoid so far in life. “I cannot accept such an offer on my behalf.” She finished tensely._

 

_“But can you deny such an offer on behalf of your child, knowing the cost to them if they are birthed while you remain unwed?”_

 

And that was it, wasn’t it? How could she deny her child the right to his father’s name? How could she deny them a chance at protection? Although the conversation had continued for some time, Tyrion had had her in that moment, and they both knew it. The rest was just semantics. Laying in the bed that had once housed her lover, Brienne closed her eyes, but sleep still evaded her. Cradling the growing roundness of her middle, her thoughts began to drift like waves, conjuring up the image of a small, blonde child paddling in the seas of Tarth. The sound of a laugh so similar to hers was clear enough that she could almost swear it sounded beside her, all the while the child glanced up at her with the eyes of the only man she had ever loved. The eyes in her dream held an innocence the eyes of her child’s father had never contained, not in all the years she’d known him. How could she do anything but her best for the son or daughter who might one day own those eyes?

 

_If marriage is the price it takes to keep you safe, I’ll gladly say the vows to Tyrion for the rest of my days._

 

\-------------------------------------------

 

She managed to capture Sansa just following the midday meal, a feat she was greatly thankful for considering Lady Stark would be leaving at first light the next day. Expressing her wish to speak with her privately, Sansa merely nodded and walked sedately with Brienne in the direction of her solar. Once the door was closed securely behind them, she couldn’t help but announce,

 

“If I had known your feelings, I never would have agreed-”

 

Brienne was quickly silenced by a gentle hand on her arm and a wistful smile on the face before her.

 

“If you never would have agreed, then I’m glad you didn’t know.” Sansa announced, walking towards her seats quickly to avoid showing the great sorrow that was plain on her features.

 

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, Sansa?” Brienne instead countered.

 

“I asked Tyrion to help you, to find some way to make your condition easier on you.” She announced; her gaze clear of any shame she might feel. “You may feel it wasn’t my place, but I knew if anyone could assist you, it would be Tyrion. This wasn’t quite what I had envisioned but when he explained his reasonings to me last night, I understood. In light of no other choices, I couldn’t argue against his logic at marrying you himself, to ensure your child gains their rightful inheritance and place in society.”

 

Brienne stared at Sansa, several half-bitten sentences trying to rush from her mouth but unable to escape as they all vied for dominance. She was angry of course, seething in truth. How dare she discuss her condition with Tyrion without her knowledge? But that anger flooded through her just as quickly as it had appeared. _What would you have done, had your places been reversed?_ Neither of them was ignorant, Brienne’s position was enviable to no woman. And in truth, had she suspected that Sansa was expecting Tyrion’s child with him dead and unable to wed her, she knew exactly whose advice she would seek, and she knew that he would do his utmost to protect the girl and provide for his kin. _It’s something both brothers clearly have in common,_ she surmised with a twist to her lips. But she still couldn’t help but feel deep wells of guilt at Sansa’s face during last night’s feast, appearing before her eyes uncalled.

 

“Even though you still care for him? I cannot marry him, Sansa, not knowing that you feel for him as you do. I couldn’t take that opportunity away from you, your chance at happiness after all you have suffered. I couldn’t take that from the pair of you.” Brienne pushed.

 

“You can marry him. Feelings rarely come into a marriage, something we both know well.” She stated, “One day soon when the North is more secure, I’ll have to make a match of my own, and you can be sure it won’t be a love-match. At least I can assure you that your husband-to-be is a decent, kind-hearted man. He’ll make a good husband, yes, but more importantly he’ll make a great father to the child you’ll soon be having. That’s what matters here, more than distant wishes for what could’ve been.” Sansa concluded, her high cheekbones colouring at her words.

 

“You are the Queen in the North, if anyone can secure themselves a loving marriage, it should be you.” Brienne pressed, but in truth she knew it was a fruitless cause.

 

“I am the Queen in the North, and the North has been abused too often due to the petty squabbles of the South. The Northerners support me as their Queen now, yes. But would the same be said if I returned home with a Southron Lord husband, a Lannister husband no less?” She sighed at that, her hand twitching before sweeping back some of her fiery hair that had fallen forward. “I think we both know the answer to that.”

 

The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire after that statement, the gentle falling of snow visible in the corner of Brienne’s eye through the window. She was beginning to feel calmed by the sight of it drifting down before Sansa questioned her.

 

“You will still be marrying Tyrion, won’t you?” She saw no malice in Sansa’s eyes, only hope, and the slight tinges of regret.

 

“Unless another suitor appears, it would seem you have both made a convincing argument for the match.” They both knew who Brienne meant when she mentioned a suitor, but unless Jaime Lannister was going to rise from his grave and propose marriage to her within the next week it was unlikely that the wedding to his brother wouldn’t go ahead. _Even if he did appear before me as part of some miracle from the gods, I’m not sure I could even bring myself to wed him, not after everything._

  
Brienne and Sansa continued to speak for some time, each informing the other of their imminent plans, each of them beseeching one another to inform them of any needs or news through raven as soon as they were settled. It was only as Brienne was leaving that Sansa grasped her hand, stalling her exit.

 

“I have been wanting to thank you for some time, Brienne, for all that you have done for me over the past few years, but words don’t seem an adequate enough expression.” Sansa bit out, looking pensive.

 

“There is no need to thank me, Sansa. It was my honour to serve you.” Brienne replied, feeling suddenly flustered at the thought of this elegant young woman thanking her for something any decent Knight would have done.

 

“And yet I haven’t finished thanking you yet.” Sansa merely replied, moving over to a side draw and withdrawing a small wooden box from its contents.

 

She passed it to Brienne, and looking at Sansa, she noted the encouraging expression on the young woman’s face as she beseeched her to open the box. Lifting the creaking wooden lid, she couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped her as she felt her eyes begin to fill at the sight of the contents that sat on the little velveteen cushion before her. Sat on a sapphire blue pillow was a silver brooch stylised in the sun and moon sigil of her house. The suns had little yellow sapphires embedded within them that caught the light beautifully, truly bringing the whole piece alive.

 

“This is a much too extravagant gift, Sansa. I’m afraid I cannot take it.” She told her glumly, all the while still cradling the box towards herself in her rough hands.

 

Sansa just smiled at her, her blue eyes twinkling slightly as she looked up at her friend.

 

“You can and you will. I’m only sorry I couldn’t have one made for you sooner. I hope you’ll wear it and remember the great service you did for me, my House, and the North with honour. I regret that I’ll be unable to remain South and be present when you wed Tyrion,” she stated, her face taking on a sombre look before she forced the smile back into place, “but I hope you’ll wear this brooch with pride at your wedding, so that a part of me may remain with you on such a momentous day.”

 

Brienne had no words for the young, fierce woman Sansa had become. _When did the terrified girl I rescued in the woods grow into this Lady before me?_ Instead, in a display of affection that she was neither used to receiving nor expressing, she merely closed the distance between them and gave the girl the briefest, lightest of hugs before backing away and looking down at the contents of the box she still held tight in her hands. She missed the look of affection on Sansa’s features at her display of friendship.

 

“It would be my honour to wear it, Sansa.”

 

After again making Sansa promise to send a raven at the earliest opportunity once she reached Winterfell, Brienne departed from Lady Stark’s solar. Noting that she had some time free before their evening meal, Brienne went towards her chambers to stow away the thoughtful present she had been gifted away. _I’ll go find Pod,_ she decided. _There are things we need to discuss, especially if I am to soon retire as Lord Commander._

 

\-------------------------------------------

 

It didn’t take Brienne long to locate her former squire in the training yards. She watched from the shadows at first, approving of his form as he sparred with one of the Lords who had arrived to witness the King’s coronation. It wasn’t a long sparring match, ending after a couple more minutes of observation. In truth, Pod could have easily defeated the young Lord before him several times over since Brienne had arrived, but she recognised his mercy for what it was, letting the Lord learn from his mistakes rather than humiliating him in front of the other Lord’s and Knights present. When the young man found himself open, he would gently tap him and mutter advice his way, only ending the sparring match when he could see his opponent beginning to flag greatly. Offering his hand to help his sparring partner up, the young Lord accepted it, shaking hands with Pod before walking towards his fellow men. It was then that Pod noticed Brienne watching, his expression becoming open and pleased at the approval he could see on her features.

 

Nodding towards him, she waited for a few minutes more while he put away the sparring swords and said his goodbyes to the men present. She ignored the mutters and cackled laughter that followed her as they began walking towards the White Sword Tower. It didn’t take them long, climbing the winding, warping staircase until they entered the common room. _The gods are good, at least it’s empty._ Pouring herself and her second in command a goblet of water, she passed the drink to him quickly, hearing a muffled ‘thank you, Ser’ in reply. Seating herself in the plush, ornate chair closest to her, she began the discussion she intended to have with him.

 

“How are you settling into life as a member of the Kingsguard, Ser Payne?” She politely enquired, an element of camaraderie in her tone.

 

“Very well, Lord Commander. Although it still takes some getting used to. The last time I was here I was naught but a lowly squire. To return as Ser Podrick Payne was more than I could have hoped for, but becoming a member of the Kingsguard? That’s an honour I never dreamed of. Especially with the ability to still carry on my family name.” He finished, blushing at the implications of his last statement.

 

“Is there a maiden you have in mind to make a match with?” Brienne probed, feeling uncomfortable.

 

“Not as of yet. Steffon and Daven have been placing bets over which of them are going to marry first, although one of them mentioned-” Pod began, stopping suddenly before he could finish the sentence he had started, face paling.

 

Brienne knew what had stopped him of course, _has news spread of my impending marriage to the Kingsguard already?_ If anything, this made her plan easier to execute, although she couldn’t help feeling irritability that even this news could not be her own to share, unwanted as it was.

 

“I hazard that one of them mentioned I will be the Kingsguard to wed first?” She asked, and seeing him nod affirmatively continued, “It’s true, I will be getting married in less than a fortnight from now. I trust you’ve heard that my Lord husband to be is Tyrion Lannister?”

 

“I had heard, although I’ve often learnt to ignore idle gossip unless substantiated from the source, and this gossip was something nobody had expected to hear.” She could see the worry in Pod’s face, but instead of asking for details, he merely smiled softly at her before stating, “Lord Tyrion was always very kind to me when I squired for him, and I know he’ll make you a good husband, Ser Brienne. I only hope you both receive all the happiness together that you each rightly deserve.”

 

Coughing slightly, Brienne looked away while blinking carefully, her eyes suspiciously glassy, and not for the first time that day. If there was one thing about her condition she could change, it would be the sudden tendency that had developed to weep like a young maiden at the first signs of care.

 

“Thank you, Podrick. Although, there are some eventualities that need to be discussed before my marriage takes place. Should I discover at some point after I wed Lord Tyrion that I am with child,” She kept her face as blank as possible when discussing her child, resisting the urge to place a protective hand on her belly, “I would like you to take over my duties as Lord Commander. You are a bright young man, and are growing increasingly competent with a sword, while also being kind to those weaker than yourself. Would you be willing to take up the position?”

 

Pod looked astounded at the offer. Blinking several times, he took an audible gulp of water before replying.

 

“That would be an honour, and I would not refuse you your wish, Lord Commander. Should you need to take time away from the Kingsguard I would be proud to serve as Lord Commander in your place. Although I would only take up the position on the understanding that I would merely be borrowing the title. As soon as you are fit enough to return to duties, I’ll happily be relinquishing command back to you, and remain honoured that you trusted me enough with it in the interim.”

 

Brienne smiled softly at him then, her eyes remaining fixed on the goblet she held in her hands.

 

“Thank you, Pod.”

 

\-------------------------------------------

 

Knocking firmly, Brienne didn’t have long to wait before Tyrion opened the door, glancing up at her without a hint of surprise at seeing her towering over him. Before she could ask to be admitted, he had already opened the door wide, opening his arm in a welcoming gesture.

 

“People will talk if they see us meeting in private like this.” Tyrion observed in a poor imitation of a joke to break the sudden tension.

 

“People are already talking.” Brienne replied without inflection, adding on, “Tell me, Lord Tyrion, how was Sansa faring when you went to talk with her last night?”

 

She was keenly observing him, waiting for any sign of emotion that might hint at his feelings within regards to the girl they both clearly cared for. _Do you love her, even a little?_ However, she had to acknowledge her attempt at gathering information had been clumsy. Tyrion Lannister betrayed nothing he didn’t want to betray, not to people outside his own family. Whenever… _his brother_ had mentioned him, it had always been with a fierce love and pride. He’d often assured Brienne that Tyrion was the cleverest Lannister of all. She was beginning to see what he meant, a steady respect for him had begun to grow as they worked together more and more to assure the peaceful rule of their new King. Often, they would meet to exchange pertinent information, and in truth she had begun to appreciate the man before her for more than just his brain. His wit was evident in the moments he seemed to forget the carnage that had made their current world possible, in the moments the sorrow he seemed to wear round him like a cloak began to slip, just a little. _It hasn’t made him any easier to read though._ She knew Sansa well, could read her comfortably after their companionship together. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the world-weary man pouring wine before her. _How am I to know if my decision is the right one if I don’t know what everyone truly wants?_

 

“Sansa was understandably confused, but by the end of our discussion I truly believe she saw the logic in our union just the same as I did. Nobody understands the importance of family quite so well as a Tully and a Stark, after all.” He added somberly, downing the deep red wine in one swallow before pouring another full cup.

 

Brienne looked away in discomfort. Drinking to excess was something she hadn’t been keen on before, but even less so after some of the snatches of conversation she had heard last night during the festivities.

 

“Of that we both agree. Tell me, Lord Tyrion, do you regret your proposal yet? Its not too late to renege on our understanding, especially if you’ve only just realised you have feelings for another.” _There,_ she thought, _to say it any clearer would be impertinent, but all the same, he cannot help but realise who I must mean. Let him answer, and answer me true._

 

Tyrion stared at her above the rim of his goblet, his eyes never straying from hers as he placed it on the low table, assessing her across the desk where she sat, her back straight and her expression clear before him.

 

“It seems there are some things we need to make clear, Lady Brienne. I do not, and never will regret the proposal I made to you. My reasons are just as valid today as they were yesterday. In fact, I have already spoken with the King earlier this afternoon and he agreed we should marry soon. It has been arranged to take place a fortnight from now. As to your other statement,” Tyrion sighed at this, his eyes breaking from her own as he looked down at the scrolls laid across his oaken desk. “I… _care…_ for Lady Sansa. But that is immaterial. Nothing could ever happen between us. She’s going to go on to lead the North and marry a handsome young Lord who will make her a fine husband, I’m sure. If we were to decide not to wed, it wouldn’t change anything for me within regards to Sansa and any feelings I might have for her, I’m afraid. All it would do is ensure I’d failed not only my brother but also my House yet again.”

 

“But what if that wasn’t the case?” Brienne pushed, almost informing him of the feelings she knew Sansa had for the sorrowful man before her.

 

“And what if I wasn’t a dwarf and what if Jaime was here to marry you in my stead? We could spend all day discussing ‘what if’s’, Lady Brienne, but it wouldn’t change the realities set before us. My place is here in King’s Landing, Sansa’s place is in the North. The question is what will your choice be?”

 

“I already made my choice during our last discussion, my Lord.” Was Brienne’s steadfast response. “I choose my child, and the life you can provide for them as a Lannister compared to the one they’d lead alone with me and a surname of Storm.”

 

And with that statement still ringing in both of their ears, Brienne bowed slightly before taking her leave of the man still drinking before her, the man she would soon be having to call ‘husband’.

 

\-------------------------------------------

 

Brienne was striving to keep her tongue still in her mouth and her arms sedately raised out at her sides instead of reaching for the pins she could see before her and sticking one of them into the seamstress before her who had nothing to say but complaints and muffled curses at her form. _This is the last fitting; it wouldn’t do to injure the woman the day before your marriage just because you’re feeling irritable._

 

She was feeling almost constantly queasy now, but how much of that was due to the life growing within her opposed to the upcoming nuptials to her child’s uncle, she couldn’t be entirely sure. Glancing again at where she had placed her armour, Brienne worked at battling down the bitterness she had felt every time the seamstress had appeared at her chambers to fit her for her wedding attire. _If I’d been marrying_ him, _I’d have worn my armour, the opinion of others be damned._ It had been agreed early into the arrangements that while Brienne refused to wear a wedding gown, it would be too unseemly for her to wear her Kingsguard’s armour. Many of the older Lords had yet to accept the admittance of female Kingsguard to the order, others were still struggling with the idea of Kingsguard being able to marry. To combine the two and have her wearing her armour during the ceremony would cause too much unease, it was felt. It went unsaid of course that for her to be wearing armour while marrying the shortest man in all of Westeros would just make the disparaging gossip all the more potent. _She’s more a man than he is, and I don’t just mean in height! I hope the chambers are pitch black for the bedding, although which of them is bedding who is anyone’s estimate._ She had overheard the remark just this morning in the training yards, an imbecilic statement from the Lord of a House of little worth or consequence. And yet, it still held the power to make her face flush red in anger all these hours later.

 

Feeling another pin press into her flesh, Brienne brought the full force of her glare upon the woman in front of her, but to little avail. In truth, she felt the woman was only there to torture her, the tunic all but completed at their last meeting. All the seamstress was doing was adding in little details to the sun and stars sewn onto the edges of the fabric where her wrists were and around the bottom of the article of clothing. It was a work of great craftsmanship, although a more revealing fit than Brienne would have chosen for herself. She had intended to wear something much like the attire she had worn to King Joffrey’s wedding, but instead the stooped woman before her had dismissed the idea, a look of horror at the thought of a soon to be Lady of means wearing something so plain on her wedding day. The tunic was modelled much like the top of a gown might be, just showing the hints of her bust, a bust that had begun to fill out ever so slightly, the material was also tapered in with ties at the back to try and give the appearance of a waist before flowing out and stopping just above midway on her thighs. The colours chosen did well to highlight the blue of her eyes, and to some degree Brienne could understand why other Ladies might take so much time and pride in their appearance if faced with such beautiful works of clothing to choose from each day. While she was not vain by any means, she knew none could have issue with her on the morrow based on her attire at least.

 

It wasn’t long before the seamstress completed her work with a grunt of approval and took her leave of Brienne’s chambers. Changing back into her normal attire, she glanced at the delicate fabric of her wedding garments, a feeling of strangeness washing over her as the realities of her situation began hitting her full force. _Tomorrow I will no longer be Brienne of Tarth, but Lady Lannister._ The bitterness in her throat at the thought and the joy it might have brought her once had a different Lannister been the groom almost made her stomach heave.

 

She knew what she had to do. Marching to the small desk by the window, she took her seat, her eyes glancing at the correspondence before her.

 

At the top of her pile was the reply her father had sent to her raven. Her letter had been brief, merely outlining the changes the King had made to the Kingsguard and the fact that she had agreed to a marriage between herself and Tyrion Lannister, the Lord of Casterly Rock. She had wished him well, and assured her father that after her nuptials she would visit him as soon as the King would allow her.

 

His reply had been just as brief, but she could read the messages hidden underneath the words on the scroll that only she would be able to decipher. In truth, seeing her father’s words only made her heart ache, she would receive no joy within regards to her father, not until she could lay eyes on him once more. _Oh father, had I known all that would occur, would I truly have left the safety of Tarth? Could I truly have left you?_ But even as she thought the words, she knew the answer deep in her bones. Already she felt such a deep love for her child, to do anything that might remove them from her life was inconceivable. For all the pain she had suffered until this point, for all the heartache she may suffer in the future, she knew it would be worth it the moment she laid eyes on the life steadily growing inside her.

 

Bringing a fresh piece of parchment before her, Brienne grasped the quill in her right hand, pausing before dipping it in the ink as she deliberated about the words she wished to use. It was some time before she began writing her missive, but once started, the words steadily scratched onto the parchment with barely a pause.

 

_Jaime,_

 

_Much has changed since the night you left. The Realm is now being led by Bran Stark. It seems despite it all, he found his future, just as I’ve found mine. He made me Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Jaime. I don’t think I truly understood the pressure you must have been under until now, how the weight of another’s life bears down upon you. I’m fortunate to serve a good King, I don’t know how much harder it might’ve been if I’d had to serve and protect the rulers you were charged with. How did you do it for so long? I wish I could tell you how much more I understand now, how much I truly comprehend the magnitude of the decision you made the day King's Landing fell, and how hard it must have been for you to go every day since then with the tarnished title of Kingslayer being flung at you wherever you went._

 

_I made sure history would remember you fairly. It was a small gesture, but the least I could do. Despite all the terrible, hateful things you told me that night, I was still able to fill your pages with many good deeds. More than you’d feel you deserved credit for, I’d wager. Despite this act, please don’t mistake my kindness for a woman’s folly. In truth, a part of me will always be angry with you for what you did the night you left, for the fact you rode away without allowing me a moments reply, just one moment to help gain the closure your death will always deny me. I’d vowed to never ask mercy or help from a man, indeed, apart from my father I don’t think I’ve ever truly trusted another man until you. And yet, that night, I begged you. Begged you to stay, while you disregarded me like nothing more than a camp follower. How could you, Jaime? Of all the ways to leave me, failing your plan of leaving without a word, that wounded me most. Did what we have mean so little to you? Did I overestimate your feelings for me? Perhaps all you really wanted after battle was the security a warm body in bed could provide. Could I have truly been so blind as that?_

 

_Even so, I can never bring myself to regret the time we shared together after the battle, no matter how brief it was, regardless of what it may have meant to you or the harm you caused when you ended what we had. I have a confession to make to you, Jaime. Shortly after arriving at King's Landing, I discovered I was expecting a child. Your child. While it is still early, Samwell assures me all the signs are positive that they will be born strong. I like to believe they will be a warrior. Like me, and like their father._

 

_Please, wherever the Gods might have placed you, do not worry about us. Your brother has done a selfless thing to ensure our child will be cared for and live the life you’d have wanted for them. And when they are old enough to understand, I’ll tell them about their father. Not the man the world thinks they know, but the man underneath the mask. The man who saved me during our captivity, the man who jumped into a bear-pit unarmed to defend me, the man who rode North alone to face certain death at the hands of the dead by my side. The man who had saved me, so many times. I’ll tell them about the man I love, and the conflict he faced in his battle to be honourable despite all the bad things he might have done contrary to that._

 

_But until that time, I need to learn to let you go. I cannot live with your shadow dogging my footsteps, casting sadness over every pure, happy moment that may come in my life. For the sake of the child I’m carrying, I need to focus on the present instead of dwelling in the past. I’ll never forget you, but I need to release the hold you’ve had over me since the moment I realised I loved you. I need to say goodbye._

 

_I love you Jaime, and always will, until I take my last breath._

 

_Yours always,_

 

_Brienne_

 

The tears began to fall as Brienne signed her name to the letter, big fat drops distorting some of the still wet words on the page. Moving aside so as not to destroy the note she had crafted Brienne took deep calming breaths to try and drag her emotions back under control. Despite the pain caused by penning her letter, she could still feel the catharsis it had inspired to put words to the emotions that had welled up inside her. In truth, she didn’t know if she could ever truly say goodbye to Jaime, but she knew she had to try.

 

Deciding to forego her evening meal for she knew she could not eat a morsel; Brienne began the quick process of shedding her clothing and preparing to sleep for the night. Tomorrow was going to be a big day, and she wasn’t quite sure how she would endure it. But she knew she would somehow, knew she didn’t truly have a choice. She was more than just a warrior now, she was a mother too, and there was nothing she wouldn’t do for her child. She’d find a way to say the words, despite everything screaming inside her to do anything but marry Tyrion.

 

She drifted into sleep quicker than she would have imagined, and when she dreamed, she finally dreamed of Jaime. She dreamed of the soft smile he only seemed to bestow to her, she dreamed of the feel of his arms around her, she dreamed of his voice, telling her how he loved her, and her only. She dreamed she could feel his knuckles brushing her cheek, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered how he would always watch out for her and keep her away from harm, including harm from himself.

 

Even as she slowly began to drift more into wakefulness than dreams, she could almost swear she felt him in the room with her, that she could almost smell the rich, woodsy tones that her mind only ever connected with him. She kept her eyes resolutely shut, grasping onto the concept that he was _here_ for just a little bit longer before facing the truth again, that Jaime was gone and he was never going to return. She had told him she needed to let him go, and let him go she would, on the day she became Lady Lannister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, and leave me a comment letting me know what you think if you could! I’m gonna go put on my fic playlist and continue tackling the monster that is to be chapter 6! But since that’s my favourite number, I have faith it’ll be a goodie 😊 Thanks all of you again for sticking with this, hope you’ll carry on enjoying it!


	6. Jaime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much kudos needs to go to lbswasp, like seriously. I’m not quite sure how she manages it, but the chapter wouldn't be such good quality without her.
> 
> Also, quickly wanted to point out I know absolutely ZERO concerning medical matters. I’ve never even broken a bone, luckily. I’ve tried to research what I could, but if some things seem outside the realm of possibility, I’d merely argue I feel these turn of events with health are no more exaggerated than Arya surviving multiple stab wounds and a jump in a filthy river proceeding them 😉
> 
> A little warning - there is mentions of Jaime/Cersei and their relationship in this chapter. While I'm a staunch Brienne/Jaime shipper, I felt it important to acknowledge his previous relationship here, considering what they did in the show. He needs time to process some things, is all. 
> 
> Plus thanks to Ro_Nordmann, I finally figured out how to post images to my fic, yay! :)

[](https://imgur.com/xmyNEvs)

_If this is what the afterlife feels like, I want no part of it,_ Jaime’s mind summarily announced before the darkness washed over him again.

 

When he next came to, it was with greater clarity, and even greater pain. Almost choking on the brick dust swirling in front of his face, he was forced to admit to himself that he wasn’t as dead as he had planned to be at this point when he’d discovered he and Cersei were trapped in the bowels of the Red Keep. The obvious question soon followed on the heels of that realisation, that perhaps... _Maybe… maybe Cersei also survived?_ The moment his mind formed the words he already knew it was fruitless to hope, and yet he couldn’t stop the sliver in his mind that said if he still lived, why couldn’t she?

 

Holding his breath, he soon had his answer. Crushed together as they were, his head compressed against her chest, he could tell his sister had no breath in her lungs, no pulse in her heart. His mind stammered at the realisation, at the idea that she could be gone, his Cersei reduced to nothing more than one of many countless corpses in the necropolis King’s Landing had become… his heart beating erratically, his breath stuttering in his chest, Jaime didn’t recognise what his bodies reactions, the feelings foreign to him. Perhaps he was dying after all? He kept repeating the same words in his head, almost like a mantra to himself, unable to accept the reality laid down before him. _This cannot be the end, we entered the world as we were meant to leave it, together…_ and then the blackness began to envelope him once more, and like an old friend, he greeted it without hesitation.

 

Jaime didn’t know how much time had passed when he returned once more to consciousness, but his mind soon remembered what it had learned during its previous bout of wakefulness, and with it, the cold, hard stone that had been in his throat when he had dared hope to be lucky seemed to slip down deep into his gut to make a home there instead, leaving him numb to everything, even the pain rooted deep in his body.

 

A part of his mind began whispering to him not long after that, telling him to give up, to let the Stranger come for him, to wither away next to the corpse of his sister, his other half. If his wounds didn’t take him then the lack of water would in a few days, the voice reasoned. _After all, who will think to look for me here? Tyrion thinks we both escaped. If the Gods are good, they’ll let him continue believing that._ But a louder, resentful part of him announced that that wasn’t what Knights _did._ They died valiantly in battle, only the best surviving to a ripe old age, like Barristan Selmy. _Would Arthur Dayne have meekly accepted defeat?_ The voice seethed, before changing to one more recognisable and infinitely more brutal. _You are a Lannister, a Knight, former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Your place is not to cower and whimper and wait for death,_ the voice resolutely announced. Oddly it sounded like his father. And so, it was with that thought that he began the process of vacating his mind of everything, of Cersei, of the fate that befell her that the gods deemed him unworthy to share. And of Brienne.

 

Strangely, at the thought of Brienne his heart seemed to ache slightly, a well of guilt opening as his mind lingered on his last image of her, cold and alone in the yards of Winterfell. It took him some time to shake off those thoughts roiling inside him, but eventually that memory leaked from his body too, leaving him ready to begin his evaluation of himself and the situation he found himself forced into, despite his best efforts.

 

Firstly, mentally checking his body to assess his condition as he had trained himself to do as a young squire, he noted several injuries almost immediately as he began the routine, limited as he was with part of a building atop him and the inability to move or even open his eyes beyond slits. The first thing of note was the pain when he breathed, remembering a particularly jagged piece of rock that smacked into him as he held Cersei close and prepared to welcome the Stranger. _Perhaps a breakage here?_ He continued breathing deeply, or as deeply as he could while buried under the rubble. _No, not broken. Bruised then, perhaps?_

 

He could still feel a dull pain radiating from his stab wounds, but in truth he couldn’t feel much else there, his entire being thrumming with the pressure of all his individual pains. He had thought them terminal wounds at the time, but surely, if he was still alive, that could not be? His mind acknowledged the fact that, pressed up against Cersei as he was, it enabled the wounds to have the pressure they needed on them to stop too much blood from seeping out. It was a thought his mind refused to dwell long on. _If Greyjoy had hit anything vital, I’d surely be as dead as he is by now. Trust him to be unable to even kill me properly._ He also noted something he hadn’t acknowledged before, a definite ringing in his ears. When he had first come to, he had presumed the ringing to be the bells of King’s Landing, and yet, upon realising that the bells had long stopped, his head still rang just as much as it ached. Trying to move, to somehow drag himself free of the rubble, he soon noted his legs were pinned too tightly to make that possible.

 

A creaking chuckle escaped his lips. _Typical,_ his mind spat cynically, _I wish to die so the Gods let me live. I wish to live, so the Gods deny me any chance at escape_. He began laughing then, and it took on a maniacal tinge as his mind spiralled into the past, to summers spent at the Rock with Cersei, to the day of Joffrey’s birth and the pride he’d felt at becoming a father, and to the heartbreak he’d felt as the knowledge seeped in that he’d never be able to claim his son as his own, or any child they would have after him. Lastly, his mind escaped to thoughts of nights spent in a chamber lit only by firelight, to the woman whose body he had memorised better than even his own, and the feeling of being the man he always should have been in her eyes, even if he couldn’t accept that man as a part of him anymore. Living inside these memories, Jaime didn’t realise when he once again left the conscious world for the world of dreams.

 

The next time he awoke, it was to the sound of rock crashing against rubble, followed by the guttural cry of someone who had lost everything of any meaning. Sluggishly, his mind began the process of pulling him back from the dark depths it had seeped to, still not dead yet, he couldn’t help acknowledging in a curious type of wonder. Slowly dragging his eyelids open, he didn’t take long to note that he could _see_ as well as _feel_ the pale sunlight that was shining down upon his scratched face. It took several seconds to blink the dust from his watery eyes before Jaime registered what it was he was seeing, and when he did, he felt his heart gently crack at the sight. His brother had his eyes tightly closed, his hands savagely balled into fists round the curls of his hair, tears leaking down his cheeks unchecked. He ached to reach out to him, but found his body too weak to fight against the weight still holding him down. So instead, he tried to speak.

 

“Ty…” His throat croaky and impossibly dry, he tried again. “Tyri-Tyrion…”

 

Even speaking that singular word took more energy than he felt he truly possessed. His eyes blinking closed again, he missed the look of wonderment and inexplicable relief painted across his brothers features, his reaction slightly stuttered at the shock of his brother still living, despite all signs to the contrary.

 

“Jaime? Thank the Gods! Don’t move!” Tyrion exclaimed, beginning to grasp the rocks still holding his brother flush against the corpse of their sister and launching them in the opposite direction.

 

When he had completed his task of removing the debris covering his brothers’ form, Tyrion immediately began half dragging Jaime into a seated position with a strength he never realised Tyrion possessed. Both of them breathing heavily at the exertion, the brothers purposefully averted their gaze from the body of their sister that remained still and vacant beside them. It hurt too much to look upon her, to see the woman Jaime had loved for as long as he could remember laying still and cold beside him, when in life she had been so full of vivacity and passion. Despite the overwhelming urge within him to lay down and cry out his heart beside her, Jaime had to acknowledge that now was not the time to begin grieving his lifelong companion. For some inextricable reason the Gods had granted him the gift of his life, and a part of him couldn’t help the curiosity he felt at wondering _why._ He was pulled from his introspection by the feel of Tyrion’s roughened hands gently cradling either side of his face, and turning his eyes to meet the probing stare of his brother, he found his eyes beginning to will themselves closed once more. They sprang open when Tyrion began to gently jostle him to keep him conscious, however.

 

“Still denying others the pleasure of your demise, I see? You must be the most blessed Lannister in history, Jaime, or the most indestructible at any rate. The Stranger must be seething right now, to be denied your life once again.” He had a gentle smile on his face as he spoke the words, but Jaime was no fool. He could clearly see the strain in Tyrion’s face, something he recognised from many nights of talking with his brother about issues that intellect alone was unable to repair.

 

Coughing up yet more dust, Jaime forced himself to respond despite the aching in his throat. “I’ve survived the Mad King, a dragon, and an army of dead men. I wasn’t about to let a building take me to the grave.” He wheezed, golden hand pressing against his side.

 

Tyrion noticed the action immediately, of course.

 

“Where are you hurt?” Tyrion probed, his question holding a tone that demanded quick response.

 

“Where don’t I hurt is what you should be asking, brother.” Jaime could tell Tyrion had little time for humour though, and soon expanded. “Would you believe I was stabbed twice by that bastard Greyjoy? I repaid him in kind though, and more successfully I’d wager. As to the rest of me… I think perhaps my ribs are bruised. And my head aches abominably. But beyond that, I’m as fit for battle as any man.”

 

Jaime couldn’t hold back the smirk that sprang to his lips as his brother began listing off several expletives against the old Gods and the new at his admission. He was also unsurprised to feel the calloused hands of his brother lifting his dust crusted tunic to quickly examine the knife wounds he had been gifted. He tried to hold in the wince that sprang up when he felt his brothers probing fingers pressing gently around the knife wounds.

 

“This looks bad, Jaime.” He announced, quickly pulling and twisting the tunic in a way that kept it taut around Jaime, keeping a modicum of pressure on his twin wounds. “I need to try and seek help, though where I’ll find it is anybody’s estimate. Promise me you will try and stay awake, live just a little bit longer until I can get the supplies we’ll need to see you well and safe away from here?” Tyrion urged him.

 

“I promise, little brother.” Jaime croaked out, his eyes following Tyrion as he proceeded to rise and rush towards the only escape route available.

 

Didn’t Tyrion know any better by now? He thought without humour as his eyes gently slid closed before he had even left the vault. _Lannister’s are liars, and I’m certainly no exception,_ was his last thought before the blackness once again enveloped him.

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

He came to again quicker than before, Jaime felt. The sunlight streaming through the cracks of the building seemed just as bright as earlier, at any rate. He recognised the fact there were two voices talking almost immediately, taking a moment to identify the tones of the second voice. _Davos Seaworth?_

 

“I have a man who can take him as far as-”

 

“Best not tell me where, Ser Davos.” Tyrion smoothly interjected. “Not unless you want the Queen to torture that information out of me once she realises Jaime still lives.”

 

“Well, I was thinking on that, see, and have a plan that might-”

 

He couldn’t hold in the splutter fighting him for escape any longer, his wheezing helping to alert the other men to his newly conscious state.

 

“Ser Jaime, good to see you back amongst us. Now I knew you were a hard man to kill after the battle of Winterfell, but this is something truly unprecedented, even for you,” Davos announced, passing filled bottles from the knapsack he carried to Tyrion.

 

“I’m glad I haven’t disappointed you, Ser Davos,” Jaime groaned before having a water skin quickly pressed against his lips. He took several deep, greedy gulps until it was pulled away from him again much too soon for his liking.

 

“I need to see to your wounds, Jaime,” Tyrion explained at his quirked eyebrow, the only sign of his silent question.

 

Tyrion worked in silence while Davos removed rocks from an exit that had begun revealing itself after the Keep had started to fall atop Jaime and Cersei. He didn’t take much notice as his brother lifted his tunic off of him. When he did look down at his brother, he saw that he was dousing his hands in something before Tyrion began lifting clean linens from the bag at his feet. The smell hung in the air between them, the odour familiar, spicy. It reminded him of… _could he truly be using…?_

 

“If Cersei were still living, she’d skin you alive for using her favourite Dornish red in such a way Tyrion. Tell me, when did you begin the habit of washing your hands in such an expensive vintage? I know we’re Lannister’s, but that’s an excessive waste of coin even for us.”

 

Tyrion was methodically dousing Jaime’s sides in the wine now, his hands nimble as they quickly began the process of binding his chest with the reams of linen, gently tying them once he was through before he felt secure enough to make his reply.

 

“I had a lot of time on my hands while in Mereen, Jaime. A lot of time, and a lot of questions after my narrow escape at the Blackwater. I happened to find a volume that had quite illuminating methods on how best to deal with wounds. One suggestion was to clean open lacerations with hot wine. Let’s hope this works just as well to keep any sickness at bay, at least until you can see someone with superior training than me,” Tyrion said while taking out creased bundles of fabric from his bag and passing them to his brother.

 

Unravelling the cloth, Jaime soon noted he was holding a rough tunic and a pair of breeches a good two inches too short for his legs. Before he could question him on it, Tyrion merely gestured for Jaime to redress in the clothing. Grasping the remnants of wall behind him, he did as he was ordered, a question that tasted like acid quickly escaping from his mouth as he did so.

 

“None of this will matter if the Dragon Queen finds me. Tell me, how many men, women and children had to die so she could sit on that abominable chair everyone loves so much, Tyrion?”

 

Jaime could tell his words had greatly affected his brother, even half dead as he was, he’d easily noted the paling of Tyrion’s skin, the way his eyes refused to meet his own. He didn’t need an answer; the answer was writ plain across his brother’s face.

 

“She’ll be too busy preening over her victory to notice you’re gone for quite a while, I hope. I also have an idea that should help you evade her detection for quite some time following that, if all works out as planned,” Tyrion announced.

 

“And what plan might that be?” Jaime pushed, gently pulling the tunic down over his head. His hands gingerly skimmed the white linens covering his ribcage as he did so. He noted the reinforcement they gave him at once, secured with just the right amount of pressure to support him while not too greatly constricting his breathing. _Much better._

 

Tyrion’s reply was swift and sure. “To show her you are truly dead, of course. In a city overrun with corpses, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find one that could pass as you,” he stated confidently, turning slightly to afford his brother a modicum of privacy as he began the process of changing his breeches.

 

He took a few moments to form his reply, mulling over the words his brother spoke, and what that would inevitably mean.

 

“And what about your life, Tyrion? If she’s anything like her father, which I think we can both agree she is, she won’t thank you for helping me to escape before she could enact her own justice against me. Whether she believes I fell when she took the city or not, it’ll matter little to her, the punishment for you will remain the same regardless. She’ll kill you without a second thought, Tyrion,” Jaime announced, his voice breaking slightly as the thought of losing another sibling to the Dragon Queen became more than just a distant concept to him.

 

“She won’t kill me,” Tyrion said. “She has her dragon to use for that undesirable job.”

 

Turning to where his brother was facing away, Jaime reached out to grasp Tyrion’s shoulders, careless of the quiet spectator in the vault taking in every word of their exchange with pity and understanding.

  
“Come with me. Don’t die here in this godforsaken city, brother. We could go anywhere, Pentos, Yi Ti, Andalos. You name it, Tyrion, and we’ll sail away, with no Lannister name to weigh us down. A new life for the both of us.”

 

Tyrion smiled sadly at that, and placing his hands over those of his older brother, morosely replied, “I’m sick of running, Jaime. I ran after I murdered father, and it led me to Daenerys Targaryen and all the carnage that has followed since she landed in Westeros. It’s my fault, and I need to pay for my part in what happened on this day. But just because I have to die, doesn’t mean you have to die alongside me,” Tyrion implored.

 

“We’ll face her together or not at all. If you truly wish to pay for your crimes, let me pay for mine alongside you. We’ll face her together and we’ll die together, just as we should have done at your trial by combat all those years ago.” As he said those words, Jaime couldn’t help but remember the sight of the smouldering corpses of the Tarly’s he had noted on the battlefield. _At least they had one another. If I couldn’t leave this world with Cersei, I’ll leave it with my brother. I can’t let him die alone and afraid in this city, too._

 

Tyrion merely shook his head, his face more serious than Jaime remembered ever seeing it before. He couldn’t help the stray question that entered his mind, _when did my lecherous, pleasure seeking brother become this serious, level headed man before me?_

 

“I refuse to allow it,” Tyrion announced boldly. “You’ve saved me so many times in my life, whether you’re aware of it or not. Let me die knowing that I’ve saved you. I wouldn’t ask more of you than you were willing to give in the past, Jaime, but I will ask this of you: survive brother, survive and live a long, fulfilling life, for the both of us.”

 

A dozen arguments sprang to Jaime’s lips, several varying methods he could try and utilise to convince his brother to live, and just as many ran through his mind that would force Tyrion to let Jaime remain in Kings Landing with him and damn whatever consequences that might result in. _I’m already half dead, why deny the Targaryen Queen the pleasure of killing me the rest of the way?_ In truth, Jaime didn’t see what difference it would make if he died escaping Kings Landing or within its walls. What Tyrion was asking of him was too much – even if he did survive, he’d destroyed his only chance at happiness just as succinctly as the Mad Queen had destroyed her newest city.

 

But looking upon the open, earnest expression clear on his brother’s face, and the way his eyes pleaded with Jaime to just _please_ submit to this _one_ wish, he knew he couldn’t manipulate Tyrion in that way, despite everything inside begging him to do so. He had already harmed the one woman who had truly believed Jaime was someone worth fighting for, someone worthy of respect. He didn’t know if he could face the look on Tyrion’s face if he gave into his self-centred wishes and manipulated him like he had done her. Brienne’s face rose to his mind then, unbidden, every detail as clear to him as it had been that last night. He recalled the fat tear tracks that had glistened on her cheeks, and how pale and luxurious her skin had appeared in the moonlight when he’d snuck one last secret glance at her before mounting his horse and riding south. He felt a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with his wounds at the memory.

 

Nodding his acquiescence, he merely said, “I love you, little brother. Despite everything father said, you were always the best of us. Whatever might happen, I want you to ensure you don’t forget that. Despite what this may sound like, this is not a goodbye. You’ll find a way to survive the Mad Queen, and if you don’t, I’ll never forgive you.”

 

Jaime felt his eyes begin to sting with tears, but he refused to let them fall. Tyrion will find a way out of this somehow; I know he will. _The gods aren’t cruel enough to take him away from me too, surely?_

 

Stepping clear of his silent vigil in the shadows, Davos coughed roughly before saying, “Whatever your plan is, we need to implement it soon. It won’t be long before the new Queen has her men check the Keep for survivors, and then it won’t matter much what any of us wants, we’ll all be food for that dragon of hers.”

 

Turning to his friend, Tyrion replied, “Right again, Davos. Let’s go over what we’ve decided quickly, for Jaime’s sake. I’ve already mentioned the double I plan to place here. Thinking on him actually, Jaime, about that hand of yours…”

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

He was thinking of her again, as his horse continued its travels on the Roseroad. _If you see her, tell her… tell her, ‘it’ll always be yours.’_ He’d parted company with Davos’ man somewhere near Blackwater Rush upon the understanding that Jaime would follow the plan his brother had laid out for him and continue travelling west upon the Goldroad until he reached a loyal associate Tyrion had placed near Casterly Rock. Well, that was what Tyrion believed Jaime would be doing. Jaime wasn’t sure how well informed the young man who had led him several miles beyond the walls of Kings Landing was, or if he was even aware of the identity of his travelling partner. Regardless, Jaime had other plans and he intended to pursue them, so if he followed Tyrion’s plan it mattered little. If his brother didn’t find a way to survive the Dragon Queen’s wrath, Jaime would remain oblivious either way.

 

He’d promised Tyrion that he would try and survive, and that was something he intended to try his best to achieve. Sweating through his borrowed, ill-fitting clothing, Jaime wiped his hand down his tunic again before once more grabbing the reins of his horse, uncomfortable to note that the coarse material was beginning to stick along his back like a second skin. He hadn’t felt truly well since before the Red Keep fell atop him but he’d noticed a severe decline in his wellbeing over the past few hours, the sun having risen and set more than once since he’d last hugged his brother and escaped the smouldering remains of the city that he’d called home for seventeen years.

 

He’d ridden his horse hard at first, both Jaime and his companion desperate to escape the smouldering ruins. When he looked at the man (more a boy really, his mind acknowledged), he could easily discern the haunted look in his eyes, the way his whole body seemed to quiver at the slightest noise in the forests they had travelled through. He’d seen the destruction of his home, and it made Jaime sick to realise that he’d saved the city, likely saved this boy’s parents the day he killed the Mad King, only for that same death and destruction to reign down upon them a mere generation later with the Mad King’s daughter. _All those years, despised by some, belittled by others, and for what? What was the point of being the Kingslayer for all those years if the city ultimately burned regardless?_

 

After parting ways with the boy, Jaime decided he would primarily begin travelling during the night and early hours of the morning. He’d blend in, he hoped, travelling in the borrowed clothes of the smallfolk Tyrion had robbed, the hood of his dark cloak helping to disguise the best of his features. Many residents from the doomed capital were fleeing west towards the Reach, and as such he wouldn’t look too conspicuous amongst them. While many would not have the luxury of riding on horseback, they would likely just presume Jaime had taken his mount from an inkeep’s stables during his escape of the capital. Still, it paid to be wary. He didn’t wish for a repeat of his time as a captive, and he imagined it would be a much less interesting experience without the wench to tease, pressed along his back for company as she had been at the time.

 

He tried not to think too much on the women he had lost, the pain of remembering them equally gut-wrenching but in varying ways. When he did think of Cersei, it was with more of a brother’s love now than that of a lover, and also with a deep regret he didn’t believe would ever fade, even if he lived to his hundredth nameday. _I couldn’t save her; I couldn’t save our child. I was too late, too incompetent yet again._

 

When his mind strayed to thoughts of Brienne, it was accompanied by the feelings of a deep, almost overwhelming guilt. He had hoped it would be easier for her, if he simply escaped into the night while she slept. To leave her with that last pure memory of their time together, the closeness that had developed into something intimate between them since the battle almost overwhelming all other emotions in him. But of course, the Gods liked to remind him of their cruelty at the most inopportune of moments, unable to allow him to give her that, to force his hand instead. He knew Brienne would have followed him if allowed her, that he would be unable to stop her if he was being truthful. Jaime was completely aware that she’d help him save his doomed sister, even at the severe cost it would cause to her own soul, to save someone responsible for such heinous crimes against the people of Kings Landing and the family she’d sworn herself to. He knew somehow, inextricably, that she would do all that for him. Give up her honour and her oaths to join him in his suicidal mission. He simply couldn’t allow it, couldn’t let her leave the safety of Winterfell to die with him that way, to be forever branded a turn cloak, or worse, as nothing more than a simple-minded whore under his thrall. The whispered words he’d heard in Winterfell hadn’t escaped his notice, and he wouldn’t allow that to become her legacy.

 

So, where he could have been kind, could have reassured her, explained why he _had_ to go, he instead had chosen to be cruel. The exact moment when he’d broken her spirit would be eternally engraved on his soul, the expression on her face cutting him deeper than a sword when he’d broken her trust in him, broken her love for him. Through all their experiences together he’d seen many sides and expressions from Brienne, but he knew if there was ever a singular memory he’d take to his grave of her it would be that one alongside the undeniable knowledge that he was the cause of that shattered expression on her features.

 

It was almost dawn when he began to feel himself slipping forward on his chestnut horse, his grip loosening on the reins as he was no longer able to ignore the signs his body had been sending him for some time now; his whole being screaming out in agony at him from his toes to the crown of his head. By this point his hopes of survival seemed a remote possibility, the supplies gifted to him by Tyrion and Davos meaningless if he couldn’t bring even bring his body to obey simple commands like sitting straight in the saddle or grasping the reins of his horse tighter. Lifting his gaze from the forest floor, a sliver of hope sparked in him when he noticed a castle looming ahead in the distance, its wooden gates intact. His mind couldn’t help speculating on who might own such a hideous piece of masonry, a part of him exasperated, he should know this surely? But that thought soon began fading away, his mind unable to hold onto thoughts for too long. Cantering within clear view of the gates, Jaime’s vision was suddenly sideways as his body started sliding from the saddle with a resolute slap on the frozen ground before him. Lying face up to the world, his eyes couldn’t help but be taken in by the brilliant blue looming above him on the horizon. _It’s almost as beautiful as her eyes,_ his mind mused sadly. When he rode south it was on the understanding that he’d never see those eyes again outside of his memory. Now he’d survived his death mission, he was beginning to realise why that was still unlikely to change. He didn’t deserve her, never had in truth. He’d known that since the first night they’d lain together. The only woman he could justify spending his accursed life with lay cold in the city he’d escaped despite his best efforts to do right by her and save her.

 

Before he could brood any further on the poor decisions he had made that led him to this moment, and before his eyes could gently shut again, surely for the last time, he became aware of the face looming into view above him. It took Jaime several moments to recognise the man, for his eyes to readjust enough to recognise his features.

 

Once he did, he found himself filled with curiosity, while also recognising he was seconds away from losing consciousness yet again, a sensation he was becoming much too familiar with of late. A quick question still managed to form however, before the blackness once again took him from the waking world. _What on earth is he doing in this place, so far from home?_

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

When he next came to Jaime’s thoughts were entirely preoccupied with the excruciating pain radiating from his stab wounds. His mind was present – but only just. His hand grasped the bedcovers below him until it ached, and that pulled him up short – when had he been moved into a bedchamber? Jaime was just working up the will to rise from the soft featherbed when he heard the creaking of hinges on the heavy door, followed by an irritating bout of laboured breathing. Raising his head a mere two inches from the downy cushion took a worrying amount effort, more than he would have anticipated, but even so, he’d recognise the man scurrying into the room anywhere, clear sight of him or no.

 

“I admit, I didn’t anticipate seeing you again, Tarly,” Jaime croaked out, feeling a subtle shiver rack through his body.

 

“Likewise, Ser Jaime. When the men alerted us to a rider who had fallen from the saddle just ahead of the Keep, the last face I expected to see was your own,” Tarly replied without inflection, coming closer to the candlelight beside Jaime’s bed.

 

Gazing upon the items in the younger man’s hands, Jaime recognised a few tools that were placed at his side. The linens looked much like the ones Tyrion had used, the thread and what appeared to be a sewing needle were also items familiar to him for after battle. The ointments in the bottles however were not. He closed his eyes heavily, focusing on his breathing. He’d have jumped from the bed had he been able when he felt the cold, curious fingers begin to probe his side, his eyes pushing wide open at the sensation. He bit his bottom lip almost to bleeding to avoid the cry of pain that wanted to escape when Samwell Tarly placed a roasting hot metal implement against the bare knife wound. Covered over or not, the heat radiated excruciatingly from the item placed flush against his wound.

 

“What in the name of the Seven are you _doing_ , man?” Jaime hissed out between gritted teeth.

 

“The infection needs to be drawn out before I can close the wound, Ser Jaime,” Tarly explained in placid tones, moving to the other side of the bed to again place the heated metal cylinder against his side. “I can explain each step of the process to you, if you’d like, so you can better anticipate the level of pain that might occur. I’m afraid there is only so much I’ll be able to do; the rest will be up to you and the strength of your body. You’re lucky I was residing in the castle at the time, judging by the state of these wounds are in.”

 

Jaime didn’t see much point in that. He didn’t see much point in what Tarly was doing at all, in truth, considering who he must be healing him up to send away to.

 

“Why even bother wasting the supplies on me, when the Dragon Queen will surely just burn me alive upon sight the moment you escort me back to Kings Landing? I’m sure she’ll reward you handsomely for my return, if she’s realised yet that I’m still living, of course,” Jaime panted through the pain, a thickening sheen of sweat beginning to coat his body as his hand grasped the material underneath him.

 

“I wouldn’t give you to Daenerys Targaryen for all the gold in the Seven Kingdoms, and the one thing I would want from her is beyond her power to give me,” Tarly announced bitterly, sitting on the empty stool beside Jaime’s bed before clarifying, “When she told me what happened to my father and brother, she couldn’t help but push through the fact of just how _justified_ she was in burning them. I offered to let him retain his lands and titles, she said. He wouldn’t bend the knee, she said. So, she burnt him. And for his loyalty to our father and our family, my younger brother died that day with him.” By the time he’d finished, Samwell Tarly was looking at his hands, clenched together tightly on his knees as he regained his control.

 

“I understand,” Jaime acknowledged.

 

And he did, truly. If someone, anyone, had killed Tyrion, there wouldn’t be a thing they could offer to save their lives from the bite of his sword. _But what are your choices if the killer you abhor is also the mad Queen of Dragons?_

 

It was several moments before Jaime spoke again. “But that still doesn’t answer my question. You could ransom me to several other Lords who would gladly take the reward you would not. You could even have just left me to die outside your castle, free to be nothing but carrion for the wolves. So why didn’t you?” Jaime pressed; his eyes squinted yet fixed tightly to the expressions crossing Tarly’s face as he thought up his response.

 

“You rode to certain death to aid us in a war that was neither your choosing nor your duty. When you arrived at Winterfell, I’m sure you were aware of how precarious your situation was - that you may not even reach the battle. I daresay if Daenerys Targaryen had had her way, she’d have burnt you to a cinder the very afternoon you arrived. Escaping one close brush with death, you still chose to stay and lend your sword to the battlefield. You did not falter, and only the gods know who lived because of your presence that night. In my eyes, that makes you an honorary brother of the Watch, just like all the men who took on the cause we started. I wouldn’t have you die after fighting so desperately to live, whatever the price on your head.” Every word Tarly spoke, he spoke while looking Jaime directly in the eyes.

 

Jaime could feel the sincerity in Samwell Tarly’s speech, even as he couldn’t bring himself to connect the generous words spoken to the deeds he had committed. In truth, a part of him had wanted to die valiantly in battle that night, and finding himself alive after it was through hadn’t been an outcome he’d seriously considered when he had ridden north. If he was going to die, he had wanted it to be with a sword in hand, fighting beside her. In truth, he couldn’t help thinking how much easier things would have been if he had died that night. What did he truly have to live for now, with his sister dead in the city she loathed, and his brother’s corpse most likely hanging on the walls of the Keep by now? Meanwhile the woman he’d spurned resided in the one place he could never return to. She might as well be residing on the other side of the world for all the chance he would have at seeing her again and righting the wrongs he made against her.

 

However, Jaime found himself pulled from his reverie by the feeling of Tarly’s hands bracing themselves on either side of his larger knife wound.

 

“What are you doing?” snapped Jaime.

 

“I need to expunge the wound of puss before I can wash it, sew it, and wrap the linens round you again,” Tarly explained before adding, his tone almost apologetic, “I’m afraid this next bit will be quite unpleasant.” It was as the last word left his lips that he began to _squeeze._

 

Jaime couldn’t help himself. He tried to cling onto the vestiges of consciousness, but at the extreme pain he found himself fainting like a maiden, something he’d deny doing to any other living soul who dared ask. He was brought to after the worst part of his treatment was completed by Tarly, waggling smelling salts under his nose and lightly tapping his left cheek.

 

“I’m awake, Tarly, no need to try and stick that bottle up my nostril,” Jaime bit out angrily, annoyed at the frailties of his injured body, the pride he’d once felt in his abilities rapidly evaporating in the face of such weakness.

 

“Of course, my Lord,” Tarly replied apologetically as he pulled back to give Jaime space.

 

Tarly already used hot water and wine to clean out the injuries while Jaime had led unconscious, if the open, half used bottles were anything to judge by. Tarly was now gathering together more needle and thread; items Jaime had recognised earlier. He offered him Milk of the Poppy, lifting the small bottle before him. Jaime quickly shook his head no, refusing to take the mixture, the effects it had had on Ned Stark immediately coming to his mind. It didn’t pay to make yourself vulnerable if you could avoid it. After everything, the small pain of stitches would be nothing. He wondered if the man beside him had tried to sew his wounds once before, the needle a different size to the one he’d noted earlier. His wonderings soon stopped the moment Tarly began the steady task of sewing him back together again. He could barely stand it, the feel of his still sensitive skin being plucked and pulled while the large man beside him diligently worked his skin like a cross-stitch.

  
  
“You know, Tarly, you still haven’t explained what you’re doing here. While I’m not quite certain of the identity of this castle, I am certain I’ve not been travelling long enough to reach Horn Hill.” He didn’t add that Horn Hill was likely a fine sight more pleasant to look upon than what he had seen of this pitiful place, although he couldn’t help his mind thinking it.

 

Tarly carried on the steady task of sewing Jaime’s wounds before replying. “When Daenerys killed my father and brother, it left the women of my family vulnerable to the whims of the Lords surrounding them. Horn Hill is in quite a favourable location, and with my sister as the only remaining heir, several of them were likely to make proposals on who she should marry in the face of such a loss to secure her legacy - and to secure themselves Horn Hill. One fortunate thing about my father is that he was never a Lord the others would dare cross in life, and had my brother lived, I feel my father’s reputation would have helped protect them all until Dickon found his feet as Lord of Horn Hill. After all, my father had been training Dickon as his head of house for many years, and the other Lords wouldn’t risk moving against our family if there was a possibility of my brother being more like my father than I was.”

 

Pausing in his explanation, Tarly began coating the completed stitches with what Jaime surmised was honey, if the smell and texture was anything to guess by, before moving to the other side of the bed to begin his ministrations on the slightly smaller wound marring Jaime’s other side.

 

“After Daenerys Targaryen burned them alive, a member of my family’s guard managed to sneak away without being noticed and made it safely to Horn Hill. He near enough killed the horse, but it turned out there wasn’t a moment to spare. He warned my mother and Talla of the threats that were circulating in the camp after my father and Dickon’s execution, so they packed whatever they could and fled. It turns out they were most fortunate, for the day after their departure certain Lords began attempting to storm Horn Hill looking to form an alliance with our family – regardless of whether my mother or Talla desired one. They knew that with my brother dead and me having taken the Black that there was no male relative who could make it to Horn Hill before these Lords had achieved their aims. Likely my mother would have been used for sport before being put to the blade, but my sister? She was to be wed against her will, forced to live a life that would have only consisted of a cycle of repeated raping and childbearing.” Tarly looked sickened at the thought, though he didn’t falter in his task. His hands were steady as he continued to sew Jaime together. “Incidentally, there weren’t many places my mother and sister could be assured the safety of guest right from. The only person they could hope to trust was a distant relative of my mother, and we are fortunate he took them both in when he did.”

 

Jaime knew flowery platitudes would not bring Samwell Tarly any peace. When his own father had been murdered, the last thing he’d wanted was to hear how apologetic people were for his loss, the same people who whispered Kingslayer when his back was turned, Lords and Ladies who would truly be unable to understand the man who had sired him and what his loss meant for him or his family. All they knew or truly cared about was what the loss of Tywin Lannister might mean for the realm.

 

He imagined the situation would be much the same for Tarly, or perhaps even worse in some ways. Jaime had forgiven Tyrion for his act some time ago, and the burning rage for vengeance he might have felt if anyone else had murdered his father was never truly there to begin with. He surmised that would never be the case for Tarly. So instead he chose to question him on his locale instead of offering meaningless words neither men would be convinced by or appreciate.

 

“And which Lord might this be? I admit I didn’t recognise what little I saw of the castle.” He finished, before being offered a sip of lukewarm water by the large man beside him.

 

“Lord Caswell of Bitterbridge. He doesn’t get summoned to court too often, and is currently looking for a husband for two of his sisters, as well as trying to make early alliances for his young daughters. Had Dickon lived, he might even have married Lord Lorent Caswell’s younger sister eventually.”

 

His question was satisfactorily answered, Jaime began drifting off to sleep when he was jostled again, encouraged to lean up so Tarly could begin wrapping the bandages around his middle much like his brother had done for in the vault of the Red Keep. He couldn’t help the annoyed sliver that slipped into his mind as he wondered, _when did the Tarly’s become such a sociable bunch?_ As the younger man began speaking to him once again.

 

“You’re lucky I was here, Ser Jaime. Your body is currently fighting an exceedingly bad infection, and although I’ve done all I can for you, I fear it’ll fall to your body to rid itself of it completely. Luckily whoever stabbed you wasn’t very good at their aim – they missed your kidney and lungs; they didn’t hit anything of importance in truth. But even so, you’ll be best served to remain off your feet for a number of days I’d wager.”

 

Jaime found it hard to keep his face still after such a speech. _Does this man truly think I don’t understand the limits of my own body?_ “This isn’t the first injury I’ve suffered, Tarly.” Jaime remonstrated, lifting the end of his stump from the bed and waving it haphazardly in the younger man’s direction.

 

Tarly seemed to colour slightly at that. “Even so, I find it better to be prepared for what’s to come. I’ll do all I can for you while you’re here, but the majority of the work is down to you until the infection is completely rooted out. Men have died from lesser wounds,” he reproached.

 

Jaime felt tired, a tiredness that ran deeper than the body. “You seem to misunderstand me, Tarly. Any time you can give me is stolen time. My life is owed to the Stranger in one form of another, whether this infection takes me to them, or a wound on the battlefield, or when I’m an old man grown cold in his bed; it matters naught to me.” With that, Jaime turned his head away from the melting candles, his eyes closing as his mind brought the dead corpse of his sister back to the forefront.

 

He didn’t see the look of dismay on the young man’s face, or how he paused, uncertain, like he was about to say something more. After several tense moments Sam began the process of gathering together the old, blood stained bandages and his other partially used supplies before returning to the door of the chamber and leaving the room with only the creak of hinges to alert the feverish man in the bed of his departure.

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

The fever that Tarly had warned him of soon settled into his body, and it wasn’t long before Jaime’s mind was lost to the young Maester, only returning to lucidity briefly before falling under the constraints of the fever once again. In his waking hours, he thought he could hear his sister calling for him, and he would try and rise from the featherbed to reach her only to be pushed down again once more by Tarly.

 

“Ser Jaime, your stitches-”

 

“But she’s _there,_ I can hear her, let me go to her. _Please,_ ” he begged, but to no avail. He had to save her, had to do something. Her voice continually beseeching him to find her, to join her like he should have done in the Red Keep haunting his every waking moment.

 

During these interludes, it was almost impossible for Tarly to clean the wounds out without the aid of several other members of the household to hold the Lannister heir down. Jaime tried fighting, tried to swing out at the men surrounding him with all the power his weakened arms possessed, tried to aim his feet so they would connect with the shins of the men holding him tightly to the bed, but to no avail. Other times were easier for Tarly to treat him. When Jaime would see his vision of Brienne in the room before him, he would find himself calming almost immediately, happy to note how resplendent she was in the armour he had gifted her, although she often kept her distance from him, remaining in a darkened corner of the small room. Her face held an aggrieved expression, and the few times she spoke to him it was to cajole him into living, much like she had done when they had been held captive following the removal of his sword hand.

 

“I thought you stronger than this, Jaime,” she would accuse. “After all you have been through, is this truly how you want your life to end? Shivering in a sick bed like an old maid? I always thought the great Jaime Lannister would die fighting with steel in his hand during the heat of battle. Even Walder Frey died with more fire inside him than what you have at this moment.”

 

It was during these tense displays that he held his body completely immobile despite the discomfort of Tarly’s fingers pressing the sore points of his body, his eyes intent on Brienne’s, refusing to back away from the challenge he saw there. But these moments didn’t last long. By the second day, he was no longer experiencing even these bouts of semi-lucidity, instead lost to the twisted dreams inflicted upon him by his inflamed mind and being.

 

He began dreaming he was in the Red Keep, back from war and back in his sisters’ bed. She sat straddling his lap, a thin red chemise the only clothing hiding her nakedness from view. He felt her soft hands begin pulling on the silky hair near the crown of his head until his scalp began stinging, then she proceeded to grasp his face and lift it towards hers, intent on receiving a passionate kiss. Turning his face to the side, Jaime felt a knot of guilt building in the pit of his stomach. He searched his mind for reasons why he might feel this way, but found himself coming up short. _This is your other half; this is the most natural thing in the world._ _But if that were true,_ another voice in his mind argued, _then why can’t you return her embrace?_

 

“Do you no longer find me beautiful, Jaime?” Cersei questioned, her voice carrying a bite of irritation as she lifted herself up from his body.

 

His eyes followed her movements as she went to grab a goblet of wine, admiring the sweet curves he had memorised so long ago. He only stopped his appreciation upon noticing the spectator that stood directly across from his sister, and the reason for his sickening guilt began rushing back to him.

 

“I know you better than you know yourself,” Cersei boasted, returning to his bedside and dragging the blankets clear of his body, exposing his nakedness to both women. “I know what makes you lustful, what sweet words work best to bring you to pleasure. Can she say the same?” Cersei demanded, grabbing his cock quickly and _twisting._

 

“Get off me, Cersei!” He yelled as shock overtook him, quickly pushing his sister from him and dragging the blankets back over his manhood. When he looked towards Brienne, he could only note the look of pity in her eyes. If he hated anything, it was that look she gave him. That same look had been upon her face after he lost his hand, and he’d vowed to never see it cross her face again. His mind acknowledged the laughter of his sister in the background as great wells of shame filled him, his head bowed in mortification.

 

Turning towards Cersei, he couldn’t help asking her why. “Why on earth would you do that?”

 

It took several moments before his sister spat her reply: “You belong to me, Jaime, not that beast of a woman. She might have had your body, but your very soul? That’s mine, and it always will be.”

 

Turning from Cersei to observe Brienne’s opinion on his sisters’ declaration, he was startled to see she had vacated the room, the only sign of her departure the partially open door across from him. Rising from the featherbed as naked as his nameday, Jaime raced towards the door Brienne must have escaped through, ignorant of the cackling laughter starting again behind him. Crossing the threshold of the door, his eyes noted the disrepair of the castle at the exact moment he felt his body falling through the gaping crater in the stone directly below him. Falling into blackness, the only thing he was aware of was the burning of his entire body, and he couldn’t help speculating if this was what dragon fire must feel like. Soon his mind was lost to everything but two pairs of eyes, one malicious wildfire green, the other compassionate sapphire blue.

 

When he dreamed again, he dreamed of Cersei. He dreamt of them in the first flushes of youth back when they had only ever known Casterly Rock, before their relationship had developed into something illicit. He felt comfort in the dream, remembering days where the only concerns he had was for his swordplay and the hijinks he and Tyrion would play on the household.

 

“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” Cersei asked, her golden mane flowing freely behind her, her face unmarred by age and grief, flawless the palest alabaster.

 

He looked round, noting the way the Sunset Sea behind his sister only helped to enhance her beauty.

 

“Very beautiful,” Jaime agreed, not entirely referencing the view. His voice was that of a young boy again, and as he looked upon himself, he saw hands unscarred from battle. _Two hands?_ His mind questioned, unable to reconcile the sight before him.

 

“You will stay with me, won’t you?” Cersei pressed, her left hand grasping his right tightly, just to the point of pain.

 

He couldn’t help but stare into those eyes, so like his own but with a fire in them his own had never held. He remembered being enraptured by those rich green eyes, but found the feeling lacking in this moment, causing him to look down contritely towards the sight of their joined hands.

 

Jaime felt his body flinching back instinctively, both in his fevered dream and in the featherbed he was residing in as he viewed the blood coated hand grasping his bloody stump, three of her fingers bent and twisted out in unnatural angles before him.

 

“Won’t you stay with us, Jaime?” Cersei asked him once more, the mutilated bodies of his children looming just behind her.

 

He viewed them each in turn, the bile in his throat making it hard for him to suck in air. Joffrey, not a day older than his wedding day looked no different to how he had appeared upon his demise. His face had paled dramatically in death, his eyes veined red with the blood that flowed through them, his nose containing twin trails of blood leaking from it. Jaime couldn’t help but feel unnerved at the calculated smile tainting his eldest’s features, and his gaze quickly moved past him, landing instead on Myrcella.

 

She was dressed as he last remembered her, in the pink flowing gown styled deliberately to expose her pleasing form. He didn’t look upon her face, not at first, his eyes trailing upwards from her feet, eyeing the blood that began marring the delicate pink fabric partway, the way it seemed to grow wider the closer it got to its source. When he looked at her fine features, the dainty shape of her face, he couldn’t help but be drawn to the lower half of it, the top of her lip down to her chin was stained entirely with blood, her thin neck completely coated in red. When he looked her in the eyes, he saw that they were filled with unshed tears, a deep sorrow there as she looked upon him.

 

Lastly his eyes met Tommen’s shade, the youngest, and perhaps the most delicate natured of his children. Unlike his siblings, Tommen was not standing before him. _How could he be?_ His mind thought, oddly emotionless. _He doesn’t have legs to stand on._ Tommen was led on the ground, his limbs bent out in several abnormal directions, his bones cutting through the fabric of his rich clothing in places where they had shattered upon his fall. He was holding a bundled blanket in his one usable arm, and when he turned it to show Jaime, he found it to be empty. Tommen wouldn’t even look at him, his eyes too intent on rocking the empty bundle like it was the most precious thing in the world to him.

 

He turned again towards Cersei, to the blood coating her features here and there. She was his golden girl from childhood no more, her face reverted back to the one he had last looked upon in the vault of the Red Keep. When did we get so old? He wondered as he looked down at himself once more, to the battered body that he now resided in. Lifting his eyes to his other half, he watched as she raised her hand towards him, beckoning him to return to her once more. He felt his foot lift as if to join her. To join his children. His foot had nearly landed on the grass before him when he heard it. When he heard her. Turning behind him, he felt his heart stutter in his chest as his eyes drank in the sight of her, dressed in the same manner as he had last seen her.

 

“Come back, Jaime,” she begged, her voice pleading in a way he had only heard it once before. “Please, come back to me.”

 

Some part of him noted the woods framed behind her, the way they were strangely covered in snow and moonlight, just like the night he had left her. A direct contrast to the blazing sunlight his sister and their children stood before him in. He watched Brienne, the way she never took her eyes from his own, not even to blink. She didn’t say another word, didn’t try to reach out to him like his sister, didn’t try to encourage him to her side like Cersei was currently doing behind him. She merely watched him, waiting for him to make his decision.

 

He had a choice to make, and a part of him knew he couldn’t stand here forever between two worlds, that even if he refused to move from his current purgatory, that one way or another, the gods would ultimately force a choice from him. He could either join Cersei, just as he had always done since boyhood, or follow Brienne into the dark, into a world filled with unrevealed secrets and perhaps a chance at redeeming himself in the eyes of the sixteen-year-old boy he had been who had once believed in the valiant Knights from songs. His eyes settled on the lit torch leaning jauntily against the oak tree at the beginning of the path that would lead him into the woods, lead him to her as she began to walk into the woods, alone and unprotected. Taking a step forward, and then another, and another, he grasped the torch in his only hand and began his journey into the woods.

 

When his eyes next opened, it was to the sight of daybreak through the small window in his chamber. Wiping the sweat that had dewed on his face away with his stump, he was pulled up short at it, remembering fragments of his fevered dreams. He’d made his choice, and for good or bad, he was going to have to live with it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you guys think is going to happen next? Will Jaime reach Kings Landing in time? Will the wedding go ahead? What will people’s reactions to seeing him be? Will I ever get a good night’s sleep?! Who knows… (well, I do, but I’m not giving any hints!)


	7. Jaime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to lbswasp for taking the time to be my beta :) she got this back to me super quick on account of me going away for the week tomorrow and yet she still managed to do a superb job editing it. Seriously, thank you for that, can't state enough how much I appreciate it.
> 
> Slight delay on getting this chapter to you guys as my microsoft word had an error, and when I went through the process of trying to fix it is somehow ended up deleted instead? As such, I apologise for the delay, but now I've finished my coursework it means I have more spare time to write once I return home, so that's good news right?
> 
> Anyway onto the chapter, I hope you'll enjoy it, and let me know your opinions in the comments!

Less than a day had passed since Jaime's fever finally broke when the raven arrived from Winterfell. He'd been trying to move around the small quarters, but so far Jaime had only managed to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the pallet before being hit with an intense throbbing pain where his uneven stitches were. Every time he tried to stand straight he'd feel them pull, and that made his movement around the room rather more taxing than anticipated. Therefore, by the time Tarly burst into his chambers without knocking, Jaime had only just managed to shakily reach the stool on the opposite side of the room, his hand wiping the sweat from his brow at the unwise exertion of his body.

 

“Ser Jaime!” Tarly wheezed out, clutching a scroll to his chest while he tried to catch his breath, shutting the heavy door swiftly behind him.

 

“I presume from the display before me that there is some news you wish to impart immediately?” Jaime queried, appearing to all who might look upon him like the nonchalant Lord he was known for in his youth. “Someone has told the Dragon Queen I’m here, haven’t they? I presume I should expect to see the great black beast she rides on the horizon any minute now.”

 

Tarly seemed startled at the idea, taking a moment to reply. “Actually, the missive I received has nothing to do with you or your current residence here. Nobody outside of my family and Lord Caswell know that it's you in this chamber. Nor will they. Its… well…” he hesitated, seemingly unsure of how to proceed. “Perhaps you should just read it for yourself,” he finally concluded, moving forward to hand the letter to Jaime.

 

Accepting the scroll, Jaime first inspected the broken wax seal attached to the outer edge. _I'd recognise their sigil anywhere. What news might they have that would fluster Tarly so?_ Turning the paper over and quickly absorbing the words written there, he immediately realised why Tarly had brought him this news.

 

_Lord Tarly,_

 

_I hope this raven reaches you, for another threat is upon us, and this time we must rally together, Houses Northern and Southern, Great and Small. Word has reached me that my brother Jon Snow and Lord Tyrion Lannister are being held in Kings Landing on the grievous charge of treason by the remains of the Unsullied and Dothraki armies. The Dragon Queen is dead, discharged by my brother for the good of the realm. I have it on unquestionable authority that if he had not made that impossible choice, it wouldn’t just be Kings Landing that was left in a smouldering ruin, but all lands in the Seven Kingdoms, including your Holdfast of Horn Hill and every other castle the Lords of our Kingdom hold dear. She would have burnt them all. As such, Jon made an impossible choice, something which I thank the Gods he was able to do, otherwise who knows what might have become of Westeros at her hands?_

 

_Upon your last visit you indicated to my brother that you would be residing in Bitterbridge for some time until you could rally enough men to retake Horn Hill on your sister’s behalf. I would ask that you put aside your current duty and aid me in freeing Jon and Lord Tyrion. I understand that it is much to ask from you, but I would also remind you that the North does not forget the favours done by its friends, and once we have achieved our aim, I will ensure that your family is returned to their rightful place in the Reach. You stated to me that you consider Jon to be as much your brother as your own kin. Your brother needs your help, now more than ever before. The forces of the North are marching for Kings Landing immediately; I hope to see you there as both a friend and ally once we enter the Crownlands. There has been too much senseless death in Westeros, help me avoid more and save the lives of both Jon and Lord Tyrion, who helped save not just our lives but the lives of all those to come by removing Daenerys Targaryen from the world._

 

_Yours in friendship,_

  
_Sansa Stark_

 

Jaime rose automatically from his seat, stitches be damned. He was moving towards the chamber door when a black cloud appeared before his eyes, his ears humming slightly as he reached out towards the stone wall to steady himself, _I'll be damned if I faint again like some delicate little maiden._ Instead of the cool stone he expected to brush against his arm, he found his stump connecting with the steady forearm of the younger man now beside him.

 

“You need to rest, Ser Jaime!” Tarly fussed, trying to lead him towards the featherbed with limited success.

 

“Those savages have my brother,” Jaime spat venomously. “I cannot remain sequestered in this room when they may behead him any day now.” _Or worse,_ his mind fretted, rumours of the torturous deaths both the Unsullied and Dothraki were known to enact on certain enemies beginning to invade his mind and turn his stomach.

 

“And what use are you to your brother if you die on the road from injuries you could have otherwise survived if you'd remained here?” Lord Tarly snapped back, giving Jaime a hard shove to force him back into a seated position on the low bed. His tone softened as he continued to speak. “You know war better than most men, Ser Jaime. They won’t kill Lord Tyrion. He’s more valuable to them alive,” he stated, forcing confidence into his words.

 

“That’s if they follow our rules of engagement, something I doubt they will care much for.” Jaime replied quietly. _I begged him to survive for me,_ he realised, feeling sickened, _could the Gods be cruel enough to let him outlive a tyrant only to die at the hands of her barbarians instead? Will the Targaryens finally destroy my family after all this time?_

 

“We need to have faith that they will survive this, as they have survived so much before. We need to have faith that the Seven has a plan for them that doesn't involve dying in Kings Landing,” Tarly pushed.

 

It was then that Jaime realised he wasn’t the only one afraid. He was aware that Snow and Tarly had become as close as brothers during their time at Castle Black. And if the rumours were to be believed, then Tarly had already lost Jon Snow once to death, to have him return and be lost yet again… he had to know.

 

“Sansa Stark is marching North with her forces. Will you join her?” Jaime asked frantically.

 

“I leave on the morrow,” Tarly acknowledged. “I’ve received word from riders that both her uncle's forces from Riverrun, and her cousin's forces from the Eyrie are already marching towards the Capital, accompanied by the troops of smaller Houses under the banners of their liege lords. Westeros has seen enough death, and with winter already here most Lords understand that if we don’t deal with the foreign invaders now, we’ll not have our fill of war for many more years to come.”

 

"If you're travelling to Kings Landing then I'll be travelling with you," Jaime declared.

 

"No, my Lord, you will not," Tarly replied, his tone brooking no arguments.

 

"And who’s going to stop me?" Jaime queried, a smirk working its way onto his face. "You, Tarly? Are you going to chain me up? Since that's what it'll take to keep me from my brother," Jaime vowed.

 

"Oh don't worry, Ser Jaime, tying you down won't be necessary," Tarly promised, swiftly changing the subject. "It's interesting - although I was only at the Citadel for a short time I gained ever so much knowledge while residing there, particularly on matters of the body, and what can be used to help or hinder it. How else did you think I knew how to treat you?"

 

Ignoring the question, Jaime instead asked his own, feeling mildly intrigued while ensuring his tone only indicated disinterest to the other man. "And what exactly might you have learnt from the Knights of the Mind, Tarly, that would have any relevance in this situation?"

 

Face devoid of emotion, Tarly answered: "I'm the one who has been in charge of your wellbeing, my Lord. How difficult do you think I would find it while applying your ointments and passing you your potions, your Kingscopper and the Myrish Fire chief among them, to replace one with something else? Something temporarily devitalising? Or to simply slip something into one of the meals brought to you instead? Perhaps some Dreamwine will find its way into your cups, or some Sweetsleep into your food, and by the time you come to your senses once more, it'll be much too late for you to join our march."

 

Sitting there in silence, Jaime couldn't help the anger bubbling inside him at the other man’s words, while he simultaneously began to see the man through new eyes. _Good Gods,_ he realised, _he's right. If this man wants to kill me, he could probably get his fat fingers on some herb or another and dispatch me easily enough. How simple would it be for him to just render me unconscious for a few hours instead, if he truly wished to? I wouldn't have thought him capable, but perhaps I've greatly misjudged him. Perhaps he's more like his father than I thought._

 

"What do you care if I march to Kings Landing? Whether I live or die, how does that involve you exactly?" Jaime demanded, trying to keep his temper in check.

 

"What do I care?" Tarly questioned back in a sudden flurry of anger himself. "I saw good men die at Winterfell, men who would have done anything to live past that night. And before them, men I loved like brothers died at Castle Black, right before my eyes. My own father and brother were cut down before their time, in one of the more cowardly ways possible. The man I love more than I did my own brother might-" He stopped himself there, eyes closing while he took a moment to compose himself before continuing in a more subdued manner. "People die before their time every day. It is our duty to honour their sacrifice by living the best life we can. The Gods let you live, they let you live at Winterfell against the dead, they let you live in Kings Landing, and they brought you to me so you could carry on living. Don't you think there has to be a purpose to that?" he beseeched.

 

"All the Gods have ever done is be cruel. They have ended many a life that had a bright future ahead." Jaime's thoughts quickly filled with the screaming of Brandon Stark, strangling himself to save his father while he boiled alive, the only other sound a madman's laugh while they all stood there and did _nothing._ "Ask any family in the Seven Kingdoms, and they'll tell you several stories of wrongs done to them by the will of the Gods, or the will of other Houses at any rate. Do I believe the Gods have a plan in store for me? No, the Gods have no plan, all they have is chaos ahead for all of us, and me especially."

 

"If you won't stay here for your sake," Tarly pressed, "will you not remain for the sake of your brother?"

 

"I'm going _for_ my brother," Jaime countered.

 

"Do you not think that if the Unsullied and Dothraki discover you're still alive, that they might just kill Lord Tyrion out of loathing for you? They won't dare kill Jon Snow yet, they’re aware that he has too much support in the North; even if he doesn’t, then Lady Sansa surely does. The same cannot be said of your brother, and by now they'll be restless. They don't need much provocation to do what they're best at. Daenerys Targaryen's generals will know of her hatred for you even if the others do not. The only thing keeping Lord Tyrion currently alive is undoubtedly the fact that he was one of them, once. No matter what role he might have played in her death he still helped her and believed in her. I daresay it would be harder for someone like Greyworm to kill Lord Tyrion, a man he knows, compared to some nameless stranger. If you ride to Kings Landing with us, that assurance will surely flee in the face of the man their Queen hated above all others."

 

His stump resting against his chin, Jaime quietly contemplated the words of the man before him. In truth, he had never considered how much the Unsullied or Dothraki might know about him, but he supposed the Dragon Queen must have talked about her enemies before arriving inWesteros, and it made sense for his name to be chief among them. Would it truly put Tyrion at risk to ride back to Kings Landing to save him? And could he really take such a chance when he wasn't certain what the result might be? Jaime felt the conflict settle deep within him as he considered matters from every angle.

 

"And what should I do, if I remain here?" he asked, hardly aware he'd put words to his thoughts.

 

"Get well," Tarly stated. "Gather your strength, for when the Seven might call on you to use it. Nobody knows what the future might hold for us. The Seven Kingdoms might have use of you yet, Jaime Lannister."

 

\-------------------------------------

 

When Jaime eventually awoke it was well into the evening of the next day, if the hunger of his stomach was any indication. As such, he knew it had likely been many hours since Tarly had left Bitterbridge to ride East and join the forces marching on Kings Landing. Using several expletives that his brother would be proud to hear him voice, Jaime couldn't help the grudging respect he felt for Tarly, even as he cursed the man for removing his choice from him before he had had chance to completely make it.

 

Following the words that had passed between them, the younger man had announced that while he was in Jaime's chambers he may as well do a full assessment of how Jaime's stab wounds were healing as well as changing the bandages, something Tarly had been very strict about needing to be completed daily. Tarly already had the items needed with him, buried deep into the pockets of the billowing robes he seemed to currently favour.

 

Jaime hadn't suspected a thing, and despite the threats that had been made, Jaime hadn't taken the likelihood of Samwell Tarly sedating him very seriously. In truth, he hadn't thought the young Lord had the nerve to do such a thing, considering the consequences he'd have to face for drugging Jaime. _But he won't have to face any consequences, will he? He's long gone by now._ It was an oversight on Jaime's part, something he found himself repeating often no matter how much he tried to overcome it. He couldn't help himself from misjudging others - he'd been doing it with Cersei since they were children and he'd misjudged Brienne when he'd first met her. He had even misjudged Tyrion on occasion, and now Samwell Tarly could be the most recent person to be added to his list. He truly hadn't considered the fact that the man might come to his chambers already supplied with the medicines needed to fulfill the threat he had made. But that must have been what Tarly had done, for one minute Jaime was hearing praise for how well his wounds were healing, and the next thing he knew, he was slipping away, falling into the safety of vague dreams.

 

When he had dreamed in the past, it had often been of the sea, and of the little island sequestered in it. While he had only seen Tarth once in the waking world, in his dreams he had visited the island often since that day. He dreamed of Brienne wading into the sun warmed waters, her hair longer than he had ever seen it, short by the standards of Westerosi women but no less beautiful. He dreamed that she was playing in the ocean, surrounded by four children of varying heights vying for her sole attention, each with a mop of golden yellow hair. _Join us,_ they beckoned him, _the water is lovely and warm, come swim._ This was always where the dream ended, falling away as realisation dawned on him, that such a life would never be afforded to someone like _him._ Even in sleep, Jaime realised that the Gods were unlikely to ever grace him with such kindness like a family of his very own.

 

He didn't remember much of his dreams after that, his mind drifting, flitting from one vague outline to the next. Images slipped through his mind like sand through fingers until he awoke to the dimly lit chambers, and realisation dawned on him about what must have occurred. After he had completed the list of all curse words known to him, some created by Tyrion he suspected, Jaime then turned his focus on rising from the bed, his limbs stiff from hours of disuse. He had just risen to his feet when there was a curt knock on the door, followed by a man walking in without permission to deliver a message to Jaime, stammering out how Lord Tarly could not linger to say his farewells but would send a raven to inform them all of any developments as soon as he had word of what was happening in King’s Landing.

 

Jaime couldn't help but feel a deep foreboding about the circumstances ahead. While it wasn't impossible that both his brother and Jon Snow might somehow survive and be freed due to the forces marching to the Capital on their behalf, Jaime didn't hold much hope in the possibility. Granted, he had been allowed to live after killing his first King, but it hadn't been without cost. His family name had ensured he wouldn't be executed for the act, but Jaime had always suspected that Lord Tywin had supplied a lot of hands with gold to ensure not just the survival of his firstborn son, but the potential availability of Jaime to eventually succeed him someday. He'd never given up hope for that to pass in any event, although how his father had imagined that might happen Jaime didn't know.

 

When he'd stabbed the Mad King, it had been the easiest decision to make up to that point in his short life. Many other men might have thought the decision difficult, but after witnessing each despicable act the Mad King ordered, and without his fellow Kingsguard to keep such thoughts in check, it hadn't taken much to decide one life well worth the price of the lives of thousands, noble or otherwise.

 

But in truth he had never loved King Aerys, not the way people should love their monarch, and certainly not in the way Jon Snow had clearly loved his doomed Queen. How difficult must it have been then, to kill the woman he loved? When Tarly had shown Jaime the letter, it had been strangely vague on how Sansa Stark's bastard brother had managed such a feat, and how exactly he had dispatched of the last Targaryen. _Smart girl,_ he acknowledged, _nobody likes a Kingslayer, and I doubt a Queenslayer would gain much more favour. Keeping the details vague can only be to their benefit at this point. Did he stab her, like I did Aerys? Or did he place his hands around her delicate, pale throat and press down until the life seeped out of her, leaving her cold and dead in his arms?_

 

Jon Snow was much like Ned Stark. Jaime could acknowledge that easily, he’d seen it firsthand when he'd gone to Winterfell. He was sure the murder of Daenerys Targaryen had been very honourable, something the man's father would have approved of, surely? Even though Jaime had disliked Lord Stark, hated him in fact, Jaime couldn't help the grudging respect that had grown for him when he had been Hand to Robert in Kings Landing. Out of the pair, he had always favoured Lord Stark to his Lady wife, although he respected Catelyn Stark's commitment to her family. If there was anything a Lannister could appreciate, it was that.

 

Sansa Stark reminded him much of her mother upon seeing her again at Winterfell. Gone was the overindulged young girl obsessed with Joffrey she had once been, instead she had been replaced by a beautiful woman of acute mind. Jaime couldn't help but wonder what must have brought on such transformation in the young Stark woman, for she was much apart from the girl he had first observed at Winterfell, and from his experience at court, it took much to shape someone into something so altered from their previous nature. For him, it had taken losing a hand to begin his transfiguration into someone better. Jaime couldn't help hoping that it hadn't been something so severe to change the girl.

 

Jaime wondered what Lord and Lady Stark would have made of the woman their daughter had become. He thought that any father would be proud to have such a strong daughter leading their House, his mind wandering to thoughts of Myrcella. What sort of woman would his daughter have become, if given the chance to grow and live the life she should have had? He had always been proud of Myrcella for her sweet nature and keen mind, and Jaime had no doubt that had she survived all the scheming and killing, she would have made him just as proud as Lady Sansa surely would have made her parents had they lived.

 

Strangely, his musings on family pride conjured another thought for Jaime. It was with a strange clarity that Jaime realised if his fathers plans for him had come to fruition, the young woman his wench had been guarding might have been his niece by marriage in another life. Even more alarmingly, she might have been his _brother's_ niece if Lord Hoster hadn't declined the marriage proposal his father had made on Tyrion's behalf after Jaime had been made Kingsguard, back when they had all been so young and stupid.

 

He couldn't help but be relieved that neither he nor Tyrion had been trapped in a marriage with the young Lysa Tully in their respective boyhoods. She had been comely in her youth of course, but Jaime had seen the disintegration of her beauty and sanity first hand during his many years guarding Robert in Kings Landing, and he doubted either of them would have fared any better than Jon Arryn if tied to that woman.

 

Also, Jaime couldn't help but think of the implications that would have had for his brother and Lady Sansa had they been brought up as family. While at Winterfell, he hadn't been able to avoid the growing realisation that there was more between the pair than he could have ever surmised. He'd seen them interact very little in Kings Landing before Joffrey's death, but from the little interaction he had witnessed it had appeared that both of them were as miserable as the other. But now? Now, Jaime couldn't help but believe that the pair were more miserable apart from one another than together, if the short conversations he spotted the pair having multiple times while at Winterfell were anything to go by. They both seemed to light up in the others company, which warmed his heart. Jaime couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his brother truly happy in another's company as he had been with Sansa Stark.

 

If the Gods had ever been just, they would have had them marry now, when both of them could appreciate the other for more than just their outer shell or reputation. Jaime knew that if he could describe the perfect woman he would want his brother to find love with, that Sansa Stark would come alarmingly close to his wish. But how could that ever be possible, after all that had happened? After all his family had done to hers? The Gods made his brother a perfect woman, but could she see the man Jaime saw when he looked at Tyrion?

 

Or did all the Stark girl see was a potential ally to manipulate? While it seemed her interest in his brother was genuine, Jaime couldn't be certain. She'd spent an alarming amount of time in Littlefinger's care, and who knew what the man had twisted the girl into during that time? Brienne trusted the woman, and Jaime trusted Brienne, so surely that meant he could trust the girls intentions? But even if she did care for Tyrion, that didn't mean anything would ever happen between them. For all Jaime knew, if Tyrion survived Kings Landing he could ultimately remain celibate for the rest of his days, a far cry from the whore-mongering hedonist his little brother had been not too long ago.

 

But Tyrion had to survive first, didn't he? Jaime wasn't dense, he knew Tyrion's fate was likely tied to that of Jon Snow. _Could the Unsullied and Dothraki allow such a man to live? Jon Snow saved thousands more at the expense of the person he undeniably loved most. Could I have done it, if faced with such a choice?_

 

That thought brought Jaime up short. Could he have killed Cersei, if faced with such a decision? He tried to imagine it, wrapping his hand around her throat until she fell limp and lifeless into his arms, kicking and scratching until her last moments. But his mind kept changing the image, the form of his sister melting away into the much larger visage of Brienne, causing his stomach to roil against such intrusive imaginings. When he looked upon Brienne's face in the image, he saw no anger there, not like he would have done with Cersei. There was only sorrow in Brienne's eyes as she watched him take the life from her.

 

Jon Snow was a stronger man than he was, Jaime could acknowledge that. He never would have had it in him to kill the woman he loved, not even for all the people of Westeros. He'd let them all burn, himself with them, if it meant Brienne could live. He slowly made his way round the room, resting near the slightly open window to get some air on his face, his stomach wanting to heave at the many ways he was imagining Brienne's death by his hand. Each thought produced more sickness inside him than the last. He could never hurt her like that, _never._

 

_But I did hurt her. I hurt her in the cruellest way possible, made sure to twist the sword in just right to achieve my killing blow._ He could spend the rest of his life repenting to the wench for that last conversation but Jaime didn't think he'd ever have enough days to make up for his cruelty. For his cowardice. He'd wanted her to believe the worst of him, knew it would make their separation easier, or at least he’d hoped as much.

 

Jaime was fully aware that when he rode away from Brienne, it was with the thought firmly planted in her mind that he was running back to Cersei more as a lover than a brother. The fact that that was wrong didn't concern Jaime; he had in fact cultivated the thought, ensured she would believe that of him. He wanted her to see him the way the realm did, to finally _realise_ what a dishonourable man he truly was. How could he ever be honourable, how could he ever be worthy of such a woman? He'd taken away her chance at happiness that first night they spent together without a thought for the consequences, for he knew Brienne. Knew that if asked the nature of their relationship by a suitor, she would not deny what had passed between them. He'd taken her maidenhood, and with it, likely her chance at marriage with someone worthy. Someone much worthier of her than him.

 

At the thought of someone else pursuing Brienne, Jaime felt the bile grow in his throat, the churning in his guts as he imagined some other man growing close enough to see Brienne's rare smile, close enough to touch her soft skin, maybe even close enough to see the freckles that dotted her body in places only he had seen, first in that bath in Harrenhal and then much more closely in their bed in Winterfell. He felt a burning rage at the images coming to his mind, a rage at this faceless suitor that startled him more than he could express. _But... that was what I wanted, wasn't it? For her to move on with her life, have a chance at happiness?_ Jaime was just now realising how much easier that thought was to live with when he hadn't anticipated being around to see its potential execution.

 

He spent the rest of that day brooding on thoughts of Brienne meeting some faceless Knight, on thoughts of her mothering his children, and sharing all the experiences he could only imagine having with her in his dreams. Of becoming someone’s Lady Wife, of her name changing from Brienne of Tarth to something else, when the only change that didn't sicken him was for her to become Lady Lannister, something that would never be.

 

\-------------------------------------

 

Each day that subsequently passed saw Jaime push himself slightly more, his strength steadily beginning to return. Even though Tarly was gone, marching towards Kings Landing with the most loyal of his men, Jaime still found himself being treated well while he resided at Bitterbridge. Each day, an older woman would appear in his chambers to check the progress of his wounds, under strict orders by Tarly to ensure Jaime swallowed the right potions and submitted to his bandages being changed and the appropriate salves being applied. Jaime could acknowledge the handsome features the woman possessed, although he supposed many Lords might consider her past her prime years as she was no longer at a childbearing age. She seemed familiar, somehow. It puzzled Jaime, and if there was one thing that frustrated him, it was a puzzle he couldn't solve.

 

By the third day, he finally discovered why this woman appeared familiar to him. It transpired she was Samwell Tarly's mother, and as such, when she received news she ensured she shared it with Jaime immediately. He could almost weep with joy when she told him Tyrion was still alive, charged with being Hand of the King once more, by Bran Stark of all people. Jaime's thoughts didn't linger on the rest of the letter for long - Tyrion was safe, that was the only part of the news that held any importance to Jaime.

 

He had thought it would be the last news he would hear of Tyrion for some time, considering it had been decided that Jaime would vacate the Keep and continue on his travels the day after the coronation of Bran Stark. Speaking with Tarly's mother, it occurred to them both that his appearance was more likely to go unnoticed at this time as many people would be travelling back to their homes after the festivities of the day before. Jaime was just putting together his meagre belongings and attaching them to his saddle when Melessa Tarly came to him in the stables, news even more peculiar on her lips to share then when she had told him the identity of the new King.

 

"Lord Lannister," she greeted him, her tone still formal but with a hint of warmness after their weeks of forced conversations.

 

"Lady Tarly," Jaime acknowledged with a slight nod of his head. "I didn't expect to see you again so soon. And here I thought you merely tolerated my company."

 

"Considering all things, your company isn't the worst I could have been expected to keep. But I didn't come here for the wit of your conversation, Jaime Lannister, but to impart some news that might be of interest to you," she said mildly.

 

"And what news might that be?" Jaime asked. _Surely she cannot be so starved for company here that she would gossip with the Kingslayer? Isn't such things what a daughter is for?_

 

"News of a wedding," Lady Tarly stated.

 

"Whose wedding?" Jaime bit out, unable to keep the exasperated tone from his voice while he rechecked his horse’s saddle, his limbs itching with the need to get moving before he lost even more good light.

 

"Your brother's," She replied, her eyebrow quirking as she observed his surprise. "He's marrying a Lady I believe, a great beauty, or so the people travelling past these parts are heard to say."

 

Leaning against the whinnying horse, Jaime knew the shock was evident to all who cared to look his way. "And what is the name of this Lady?" Jaime wondered. _Surely it couldn't be... Sansa Stark?_

 

"Of that I couldn't say. But perhaps... perhaps you should go and find out for yourself," Melessa Tarly suggested.

 

"Thank you for the information, my Lady," Jaime replied distractedly before saying a quick farewell, mounting his horse and swiftly riding through the gates. However, he found the thought persisting.

 

_Should I return? Could I bear to go back to that place?_ A part of him yearned to return to Kings Landing, to the brother he missed more than words expressed. _But... but what if my presence is still a danger to him?_ Jaime wasn't sure how much Tyrion had told people about his survival, if he had told them anything. What if Jaime reappeared in Kings Landing and it put Tyrion at risk? For all he knew, Bran Stark might decide to set an example of him, to finally punish him for all the wrongs he had committed, the crippling of the Realm’s new King only one guilty act of many he might decide to make Jaime face.

 

And beyond that, could Jaime truly bear returning to Kings Landing, to the place where he had lost not just his honour so long ago, but more recently the other half of himself? During the weeks of his recuperation, Jaime had felt himself experiencing several opposing emotions when he thought on Cersei. Anger, at himself for being unable to save her. Anger at Cersei, for putting herself and their child at such risk, all for the sake of that grotesque, uncomfortable chair. There was also sorrow there, a deep sorrow that he felt would always be part of him, sorrow at the realisation that the sister he knew and had loved for so long had been lost to the world long ago, but even greater sorrow at the fact that despite everything, Jaime hadn't been enough to save yet another of his children.

 

Even more alarmingly, Jaime had felt relief - this was a thought he didn't dwell long on, but in the hours where sleep evaded him, he could truly admit that that was what the small part of him he tried to bury deep inside of him was. The relief was small, but it was there, and growing more undeniable by the day. Relief that he could finally be his own man, for the first time in his life. Relief that if Cersei had to die, that at least it had been quick and with him by her side as she would have wanted, rather than the alternative of her dying alone, tormented by Daenerys Targaryen before facing an excruciating death at the mad woman's dragonfire.

 

With all those thoughts circling his mind, Jaime knew the answer was undeniable. He couldn't return to Kings Landing. He truly started considering his options at that point, what his life might be now without duty or family to guide him. Where would he go, nameless as he was? _Perhaps you could go find the wench. Go to her, explain the wrong you did to her. Beg to prove yourself in her eyes from this day, to the end of your days,_ a voice quietly urged him. That thought was harder to dismiss, his eyes unseeing as he rode through the snow-covered forest. He yearned for Brienne, but how could he expect her to accept him, after all he had done to her? Could he truly be as selfish as that? What life could he give her, dead as he was now to all but his brother who might care what fate had befallen Jaime Lannister?

 

He found himself dragged from these thoughts by the shrill screams of a woman, his horse rearing up and whinnying in distress at the piercing sound. It took muscles trained by years on horseback to keep him in the saddle rather than unceremoniously dispatched upon the forest floor.

 

"Help, someone please, stop him, please!" the woman screamed ahead of him.

 

A part of Jaime urged him to ride on, to ignore the woman and whatever might be happening in these woods. That it wasn't his problem. No longer his _duty._ That voice was quickly squashed by the one that sounded suspiciously like the woman he had knighted, urging him to instead ride towards the danger. To protect the weak where they could not, just as any Knight would do.

 

He rode forwards.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I kinda feel maybe I should apologise for that ending? But I like being evil so I was actually really happy to leave it there for now *cackles*


	8. Jaime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for content: Attempted rape, violence and swearing (its not of any main characters, but important enough that I still feel better warning you guys than not) In case anyone is sensitive to these things I'd advise you scroll down to where the break is to avoid the scene entirely. 
> 
> Many thanks again to lbswasp for taking the time to be my beta :) 
> 
> So this is the last of the mega Jaime POV chapter! As you can see the word count would have been huge had I posted this all together, so I think from now on I'm going to be splitting the chapters to make it easier on myself and my beta. Updates will hopefully be a lot more regular now I'm less busy as well.
> 
> So... onto the chapter!!

 

**Warning for content: Attempted rape, violence and swearing**

  
  
The sight that met his eyes immediately made hot fury rush through him, and in that moment he was the Jaime Lannister of old again, as arrogant and reckless as when he'd been whole. Jumping down swiftly from the horse, he gripped his sword tightly, _when did I draw my sword?_ Before snarling at the men who were suddenly motionless before him.

 

"Let go of them, and I might merely maim you both rather than killing you outright if you refuse this request." Jaime stated, white teeth exposed in his rabid smile.

 

Before him, Jaime could see a young woman being held tight against the frozen ground, a knee pressed hard into the small of her back while the grubby man above her still had one fat hand gripped in the coarse material of her clothing, interrupted in the act of tugging her skirts away . Meanwhile he couldn't help noting how the grimy, large fingers of the other man's hand were still clawing at the woman's skin that had already been revealed to the cold air. That was sickening enough to see, but it was the girl with her - no older than six or seven, her clothing torn and face bloody as the other man held her against him, ready to drop his breeches and rape her before the eyes of her mother that really caused Jaime's anger to burn bright. _Hell to not killing them, these men don't deserve to live another day._

 

Taking a good look at Jaime, the pair exchanged glances before breaking out into great, witless guffaws of laughter before the one holding the little girl began replying arrogantly.

 

"And what will the likes of you do to stop us, cripple?" spat the man with stringy greying hair, his own smile exposing a mouth missing at least half its teeth, the other half yellow and decaying inside his jaw.

 

Raising his sword and pointing it directly at the man, Jaime took a step forward, walking closer to the one who spoke before replying, "I find gelding a good deterrent to such abhorrent behaviour. But in truth, once I'm done with you you'll wish that was the least I had done to you and your... _companion,_ here," he finished derisively.

 

Jaime's eyes squinted as he watched the greasy man grasp the little girls dark hair tightly in his fist, pulling her along with him as he walked towards his stout partner who still had the girl's mother held down.

 

"You'll pay for speaking to us like that, cripple," the large man promised, kicking the woman below him viciously in the stomach before moving closer to his friend.

 

"Is that so? Well, why don't you come along and prove that then? I've fought greater foes than the pair of you before. This will be over before you even know what's truly happening," Jaime promised.

 

"Oh, it'll be over soon, we agree on that," the unwashed man spat, spittle landing against his cheeks as he bellowed, "Ensure he suffers, Marq!"

 

And with that order, Jaime's dance with the first rapist began.

 

It wasn't much of a dance, Jaime could acknowledge that fact straight away; the fat, lumbering man before him no match for his skills, even limited as they were now. Charging towards Jaime, he'd pulled out a small knife and tried to use his brute strength to end Jaime easily. Sidestepping the man's charge at the last moment, Jaime kicked out at the man's knees, an effective method at landing a foe to the ground that he was quite fond of.

 

With the man panting before him, slumped against the frozen ground on his stomach, Jaime didn't wait for his foe to rise before swiftly moving forward and stabbing the man through his left leg, twisting his sword as he pulled it free. Raising his sword amidst the pitiful excuse of a man's screams, Jaime made short work of him, driving the steel through his thick back and directly into his heart.

 

Jaime felt a spark of sadness as he pulled his blade free, acknowledging that he had likely delivered a kinder death than the man deserved. It reminded him of other men, men he'd seen the wench dispatch at a rapid pace early on into their acquaintanceship. Bending slightly to wipe his sword clean against the dead man's breeches, Jaime made sure to maintain eye contact with the longer haired man across from him, keeping his face a carefully constructed, blank mask as he did so. Jaime couldn't help acknowledging the grim satisfaction he felt at seeing the distinct look of fear in the other man's eyes as he reassessed the situation before him. Jaime didn't speak, letting the silence unnerve the other man before him, curious what the criminal’s next actions might be.

 

"You got lucky once, friend. Leave now, and we'll forget this happened, shall we? I'll even let you take the woman if you like, what do you say to that, eh? Can't say fairer than that, surely?" the pathetic criminal wheedled.

 

Looking at the woman in question, Jaime noted how she didn't even seem to react to the rapist’s words, her eyes intent on the small girl still held tightly in the man's grasp. He could see the woman whispering something to herself repeatedly. It only took Jaime a moment to understand what she was saying, his ears picking up the quiet words she recited like a prayer.

 

"Mother Above, protect my Alys from harm, I beseech you. Father Above, protect my girl as you do all daughters. Let the man before us be sent by you, Warrior, and give strength to his sword arm to keep her safe. Mother Above, protect my Alys from harm..." she began repeating once more.

 

Turning his gaze back to his adversary, Jaime was incensed to see the man smiling suggestively at him, clearly thinking Jaime's lingering glance at the woman meant he was considering the offer, despite the truth being writ clear across his face that Jaime couldn't be more revolted at such a thought. _Seven Hell's aren't punishment enough for men like him._ Jaime’s eyes moved to the child, her face a mottled texture of varying shades of red where she'd clearly been slapped more than once, her nose gently dripping blood down her clothing still. An image came to Jaime's mind unbidden of Myrcella, her face in her last moments clearer before him than it had been before since her death, the blood seeping out of her in stark contrast to the chalky white of her skin. Pushing the gut-wrenching image away, Jaime forced a smile onto his face, emulating the image of camaraderie for the other man.

 

"Well, what man would refuse a generous offer such as that?" Jaime wondered, the steel in his tone well hidden to ears that didn't know to look for it, "It's clear to me that this isn't the first time you've committed a deed such as this one. Tell me, what's your name?" He enquired while edging closer, making sure to lower his sword as he did so.

 

"Harys be my name. Say, where'd you get such good steel as that?" Harys questioned, piggy little eyes greedily admiring Jaime's sword. "Steal it, did you? A man would be willing to trade much to get a nice sword like that for himself."

 

"I'm sure they would. These are dangerous times, as I'm sure you know. I have more steel, items I'd be willing to trade, should the price prove right. Think you could help me find someone willing to pay my price for it?" Jaime asked inquisitively, nearly close enough to touch the man. _Almost there, almost..._ He was very much aware that while the man's grip on the girl's hair had relaxed, he'd still failed to let her go. One wrong move... _I cannot have another child's death on my conscience. I refuse to let the Gods take another innocent when I know I can stop it..._

 

"What would you want for it?" the revolting man asked curiously, his grip tightening on the girl as he gestured at Jaime with the hand still wrapped in her dark locks.

 

"Nothing too unreasonable," Jaime promised. "I can get more steel like this. Right now, I'd be willing to trade for a place to bed down for a couple of nights, and a bit of food to keep me going. Winter hasn't been a good friend to me. Friends are important in these trying times. Do you have any friends nearby I might trust do some work with?"

 

"Friends? No, you killed the only friend I had, if you'd want to claim his as such. Which I don't. Useless man, in truth. But a man like you? A man like you could be a valuable friend, we could pillage and rape our way across Westeros, if you're so-"

 

He didn't get another word out, for between that moment and the next Jaime had struck, his sword coming down swiftly on the other man, removing his hand at the wrist. He didn't get much screaming out before Jaime turned, his sword swiftly slicing the man open from chest to groin as the girl quickly fled to her mother's side. Falling to his knees before Jaime, he leaned in close to the dying man to explain.

 

"I did warn you what would happen if you and your partner didn't release the two girls. I bet you wish you'd listened to me now, don't you? I have to say, I'm glad you didn't," Jaime hissed, before whispering in the man's ear, "thank you for paying my price. Your death is all the favour I could want from you." He finished before kicking the man backwards, turning to face the woman and her daughter who were huddled, terrified, on the frozen earth.

 

Seeing the pair flinch at his approach, Jaime sheathed his sword, raising his hand in peace.

 

"It's all right, you're all right... I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to help," he promised, bending down towards the woman curled up on the cold earth, his hand outstretched to her.

 

Jaime didn't know how long he waited, but eventually, the woman put her shaking hand in his.

 

\--------------------------------------------------

 

It took Jaime a little over three days to escort the woman - Roesia, she later told him and her daughter Alys to the village they had been travelling to when they were set upon. He learnt much in those three days. The first day, the pair barely spoke a word to each other, let alone to Jaime. Placing the woman and girl on the horse while he walked alongside, their journey was a slow and miserable one. _At least it didn't snow,_ Jaime acknowledged, although that was the only positive thing he could say of the day.

 

The journey took Jaime away from where he had planned to travel, but considering his plans were still fluid and ever-changing each time he seriously considered them, he found himself not minding overmuch. Jaime was the first to point out to the pair that they couldn't travel alone, easily acknowledging to himself how dishonourable it would be to leave them in the woods with no supplies or chance of safety while they continued travelling. No doubt, the two men he had slain wouldn't be the only disgraceful pair who would gladly attack an unarmed woman and her daughter if granted the opportunity.

 

The second day was easier. While they weren't at ease by any stretch of the imagination, Jaime liked to think that they had begun trusting him ever so little. As they sat huddled round the fire Jaime had built that evening, Roesia began to tell Jaime here tale of how her five brothers had died, along with her husband in the course of the wars. How most people still avoided King’s Landing after the great massacre, despite the fact it was often spoken of how their new ruler was unlike the others before him, of how things were going to start changing for the better this time...

 

"They all say their pretty words, but how many of them truly _mean_ them?" she spat, "Why should this Stark King be a better ruler than Queen Cersei, or King Tommen before her, or King Joffrey before him, or even King Robert before _him?_ They all made promises didn't they, and not a one managed to keep them. But I don't need to tell that to you," Roesia finished morosely.

 

Jaime just nodded his head, fearing words might fail him if he attempted them. He'd told the woman a version of his own sad tale, of how he'd lost his hand fighting for noblemen, how he'd lost most of his family due to the wars. He'd expected more questions, but she took him at his word.

 

By the time they arrived at the village on the third day, Jaime merely intended to see Roesia and her daughter safe to their relative and continue his travels to the nearest port, but it seemed the villagers had other plans.

 

"You cannot mean to go! You saved us, and we ought show our appreciation," Roesia insisted.

 

"That will not be necessary," Jaime tried to assure her, "I merely did what any decent man would do."

 

"Decent men are in short supply these days," an older woman pointed out. "Tell us what happened to you both." She demanded, her wrinkled hands lightly holding Alys' face for closer inspection.

 

Once the story was told, several of the villagers began insisting that Jaime's efforts needed rewarding, stating how uncommon such actions were in current times.

 

"I did what any person would have done-" Jaime tried to reiterate.

 

"T-t-two men pa-passed us b-by before you c-came," the girl, Alys, quietly stuttered out.

 

Jaime had no words for such a statement, the fire he first felt when he'd come upon the repellent scene in the woods beginning to churn low in his gut once more. _What sort of man could go past and do nothing? Who could leave a child to such a fate?_ Even as his mind formulated the questions, Jaime knew he didn't truly need an answer. He could understand all too well how men could do such things, acknowledging to himself that perhaps, once, before Jaime had met his stubborn wench, before he'd changed, he might have ridden past and done nothing. He could hear the worthless ringing of his past self's words in his ears, _the things we do for love._ What wouldn't he have done to have keep Cersei safe, once? What price wouldn't he have paid had she asked it of him? He'd sacrificed an innocent child in Brandon Stark, and neither man nor boy had been quite the same since. Jaime could openly acknowledge to himself that that man who could unblinkingly push a boy from a tower window was nothing more than a hollow shade of the man he now was, and he had Brienne to thank for pulling the honour out him when he'd long thought all goodness gone.

 

When he left the village later that afternoon, it was with extra supplies that made him feel the sick swell of dread at taking with him. He'd tried to leave them somewhere discretely without success, and eventually acknowledged it would be more insulting to insist on no reward than to take the meagre one the villagers could offer.

 

Settling in the woods for the night, Jaime continued formulating his plan. Deciding to head towards the harbor safest for him in Planky Town, he decided to buy passage on a ship heading for the Free Cities. _What better region to reinvent oneself than somewhere travelling strangers are expected? The people there are unlikely to look twice at another man passing through from a foreign land._ Satisfied with his plan, sparse as it was, Jaime settled in near his fire for the night, acknowledging he had much ground to travel to reach the harbor and finally escape the constraints of his old life.

 

When he dreamed, he dreamed yet again of Tarth, and a certain Lady Warrior with eyes as blue as sapphires.

 

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Jaime wasn't sure how long he had travelled for, but by the Gods he was sick of laying on the frozen earth at nights, often wondering if he would wake up with blackened fingers or a nose nipped by frostbite. He'd been fortunate so far, having found himself none the worse for wear for his travels in harsh temperatures. Often, Jaime tried to stay under the dubious safety of the canopy the large trees provided, out of sight from any potentially prying eyes, only vying into the open sparingly to check he was on the right path to Planky Town, while also trying to gain intel on the state of affairs in the capital.

 

He hadn't spoken to anyone since leaving the village, instead choosing to listen into conversation rather than partake of it. Often, the people Jaime listened in on didn't have much useful information, either discussing their hopes of a short winter or any peculiar rumours they might have heard. He already knew Bran Stark was the new King, and so far it sounded like the boy wasn't doing too bad a job of it if the food being supplied to the smallfolk was any indication.

 

Jaime had almost given up listening and was about to head back into the woods when the group ahead of him began discussing rumours they'd heard of a sizeable amount of ships arriving again in the harbors to begin trading. Many ships had been spotted docking into Gulltown, King’s Landing and Planky Town, many more than what had sailed to Westeros since the wars had started.

 

That's when they began discussing the intriguing new names the ships had been given, named after songs Jaime had heard smallfolk start singing on the distance, the melodies quickly spreading since the death of the Dragon Queen. The ship names had amused him, three in particular catching Jaime's attention.

 

He'd heard there was now a ship called the Red Wolf, with a great big beast of a direwolf carved as its figurehead. Naturally, there was also a sleek black ship covered with gold decoration named the Mad Dragon sailing the waters - quite an ironic name, considering where one of the Targaryen girl's dragons had met its end. The one that had taken Jaime most by surprise however was a small vessel they had mentioned named The Warrior's Daughter, the woman ahead explaining how the name had come from the Lady Knight who had helped fight the dead at Winterfell before the massacre at King’s Landing.

 

Jaime wasn't sure how truthful these rumours were, but could acknowledge that the smallfolk before him clearly believed them to be the truth. He hoped the rumours were true, a larger part of him than he'd willingly admit to even wishing that he'd get to see one of these particular ships in person someday. _Perhaps this is the sign from the Gods that Tarly was always saying I should look out for, letting me know that setting sail is the right course of action,_ Jaime allowed himself to wonder sarcastically. Truthfully, he was just happy that none of the ships had been named after himself or his kin, unable to stop the memory of Cersei enthusiastically announcing her plans to name a ship in her fleet after their father, an idea Jaime was glad had never ultimately come to pass.

 

His mind returning to The Warrior's Daughter, Jaime wondered what the ship looked like if it truly existed. Would it be gaudy like the Mad Dragon? Or something more fearsome like the Red Wolf? Jaime had been hard-pressed not to interrupt the travelling smallfolk and question them for more details, instead finding himself hoping the ship would be something to be proud of, a strong vessel fit for purpose. Something worthy of the woman it had been named after. He was glad that at least somewhere, someone at least had recognised the worth in Brienne and honoured the woman in the positive way that she so thoroughly deserved but rarely received.

 

Thinking of honour, Jaime's mind soon returned to the night before the battle of Winterfell, his mind lingering on a smile that blew the breath from his lungs to see, and eyes filled openly with trust and love when they glanced his way. If Jaime lived for another fifty namedays, he didn't think he could ever forget the look on Brienne's face when he'd knighted her in that draughty old hall, or the feelings it had conjured inside him to witness her all-consuming happiness.

 

Jaime had known for a long time that Brienne was already a true Knight, had likely been long before he'd first met her. It had been a privilege for him to ensure others would have to see the honour and courage in the woman that Jaime saw every time he looked at her. In truth, since becoming a Knight himself, Jaime had never knighted another person. _Who would want to be knighted by the Kingslayer anyway?_ Often, people forgot how intimate knighting someone could be, and in recent years it had become a gift that was given much too often to the undeserving.

 

Knighting Brienne had been a small offering on Jaime's behalf compared to the gift she had given him. Her stubbornness and honour had ensured he started acting with better intentions, reminding him of the boy Jaime had once been before serving Aerys, someone who wouldn't recognise the man he had become in the years since that slaying the man. Just knowing Brienne had ensured Jaime could begin the process of becoming the Knight he had always wished to be since the day of his own Knighting by Ser Arthur, for a time at least, his mind lingering on those harsh last words he'd spoken to the wench.

 

Directing his horse onto the Boneway, the roads were still eerily quiet compared to past years when he'd travelled them. _Not surprising really, considering all that has happened in the realm since that time._ Spying the Crooked Crow Inn just before him, Jaime couldn't help the yearning he felt to enter the premises, to order a hot meal and perhaps take a bed for the night. If his estimations were correct, tonight would be the coldest night of his travels yet, and it just wasn't himself he needed to consider if he wanted his horse to survive the rest of the journey.

 

Fingering the small pouch of coins he wore hidden at his hip, he acknowledged that Tyrion had ensured Jaime was well supplied with gold for his travels. A hot meal and a bed would still leave him with enough money to book his passage to Braavos. With that thought in mind, Jaime directed his horse to begin cantering towards the Crooked Crow.

 

Greeting the Innkeeper, Jaime tried to hide his Highborn accent, although how successful he was at such subterfuge he couldn't be sure. Judging by the woman's face he'd guess his success was limited, and that was with him estimating generously. Regardless, the woman took his coin gladly, assuring him she could find a room for the night and a boy to bed down his horse, and did he want a meal while he waited for his room to be made up?

 

Jaime found himself guided towards a dark, empty corner further from the fire than he would have liked, but still thanked the woman upon her departure. Thanks to his good manners, Jaime soon found himself with a steaming bowl of stew containing dubious looking meat placed before him, accompanied with a tankard of dark, bitter ale. His fingers brushing absentmindedly against the beard that was rapidly growing, Jaime had just taken a long drag of his ale when a group of younger men - highborn by the looks of it, entered the Inn and took a seat at the last remaining table just before his own.

 

Ignoring the loudmouthed lot, Jaime was halfway through his stew when his ears pricked up at a familiar, derogatory name.

 

"I can't believe the Imp is remarrying, and to _her_ of all women!" the pock-marked, dark-haired man exclaimed before laughing.

 

"I've heard she's a beauty though?" the tallest of the group cut in.

 

"A beauty is one way to describe her," the one with a long red beard snickered.

 

Jaime couldn't help thinking he recognised the last one from somewhere, his features reminding him of someone, _perhaps he's a relation to the Frey's? He has the weasel-like features to him that dominates their blood..._ He had already heard of his brothers impending marriage of course, and although he was sad he wouldn't be able to celebrate the day with Tyrion, he couldn't help the joy he felt that perhaps Tyrion and Sansa might get a true chance at happiness this time, without family or differing allegiances to interfere with them.

 

Although one thing Jaime couldn't understand was why nobody seemed to remember Sansa Stark's name - he'd have thought her to be as famous as her brothers, considering all that she had achieved in the North. Jaime had even heard she'd been made Queen of the damned region. Although, perhaps her good deeds had not been much discussed here in the South? He doubted anyone free of the North much cared who ruled them, since historically they had always been an unsociable lot, much preferring to stay to themselves and avoid socialising with anyone down South.

 

"Aye, and more beast than beauty is another!" The dark-haired one announced before taking a deep drag of his tankard, "A lucky escape for you I'd wager, Ronnet?"

 

"Yes, just remembering when I was betrothed to the brute brings shivers down my spine," the red-headed one loudly proclaimed while mimicking sickness. "Although how the shortest man in Westeros and the tallest woman ended up betrothed is anyone's guess. They should sell seats to watch the union. I'd wager smallfolk and highborn alike would pay good coin to see the Imp marrying Brienne the Beauty. It's sure to be the most humourous sight anyone has seen for a long time, and the Gods know I could use a good laugh," he finished, to a round of raucous guffaws.

 

Jaime felt himself go cold at the announcement, the food and ale he'd consumed almost managing to push itself up and burst violently from him as he repeated the words the odious man had spoken. _Tyrion... and Brienne? Surely they can't- how could they do- why would they do this?!_ Jaime couldn't help the seething jealousy at the thought.

 

He'd imagined Brienne would move on eventually, too kind and pure to stay unappreciated by another forever. The thoughts from several nights ago returned to Jaime with vivid clarity, of her marrying and bearing children for some faceless man replaced with thoughts of her and his brother. Bad enough for another man to know her as closely as Jaime, but for that man to be Tyrion? He told himself he could accept Brienne moving on with someone else, but not his brother, for her to become Lady Lannister and yet always still be parted from him, it was just too cruel!

 

Pulling his thoughts back in order as the knuckles of his only hand cracked due to the tight fist it was in, Jaime stretched the tendons while contemplating the match. He knew Tyrion loved Sansa, even if his little brother had yet to come to that realisation himself. And Brienne... Brienne was many things, but she wasn't rash. She wouldn't rush into a marriage with anyone, let alone Tyrion, without good reason.

 

Trying to ignore the insults and jibes he could hear being thrown at his brother and Brienne in the background, Jaime knew there must be a good reason for the impending union. Considering several reasons quickly, certain ideas stood out in his mind. _Perhaps Brienne is with child? We didn't have many nights together, far less than I'd planned for us, but if the Gods wished it, surely even one night would be enough to..._ however, Jaime couldn't help disregarding this notion almost as soon as it came to him, despite the yearning he felt in his whole being for it to be true.

 

He knew Brienne had been taking moon tea, both of them in agreement that during the middle of war and unwed as they were, it could only be reckless to consider the possibility of having children. Even though it had gone unsaid, Jaime knew Brienne didn't like to think too much on their future together either; a part of her still scared his love for her was a great, insincere joke, or that he'd merely wished for company to warm his bed after the battle, and she was merely the closest willing maid. His mind didn't dwell on how right he had tried to prove her assertions, despite the entire lack of truth there was to them.

 

Then of course, he had to consider the fact that Tyrion and Brienne might truly wish for the match. Despite the insults he could hear the men still throwing at the pair, Jaime knew just how special they each were, and how lucky he’d been to have them both in his life. His brother had been willing to die for him, and if he'd let her, Brienne would have done accepted the inevitable death sentence that travelling to King’s Landing with him would have likely meant. Anyone would be lucky to call themselves Tyrion's wife or Brienne's husband. If Jaime could see that, why couldn't they see that in one another?

 

The thought brought up a tightening in his throat and a sickness in his belly. He could also feel the hot lick of anger staining his face at the thought of them together; no matter how much he tried to suppress it, Jaime couldn't help the feeling of betrayal growing through him. _This isn't how things were meant to be. I may have left, but if anyone knew my feelings for the wench, it was Tyrion. Why would he do this? How could he do this? It would be like me marrying Sansa after he had "died"._ The image of Brienne with little golden-haired children returned to him, although this time when they beckoned him to join them for a swim, it was Tyrion they reached out for, not Jaime.

 

It took him longer to dismiss this idea, but eventually, dismiss it he did. He didn't have much information, and yet, if their union was a love match, Jaime was sure it wouldn't be one that had grown so quickly. He could understand if he'd truly died that Brienne and Tyrion might have veered towards one another for comfort. After all, who else was there that truly knew Jaime beyond that pair? But in his heart, Jaime didn't see them becoming romantic with one another, not even under circumstances such as that. When he'd discussed Brienne with Tyrion, his brother's heartfelt replies had always betrayed a brotherly sort of interest in the wench, and a deep appreciation for Brienne due to her role in protecting and ensuring Sansa's safety.

 

That then took Jaime to his last serious thought on why they might be marrying, one that made much more sense to him. He'd heard rumours that Bran Stark _saw_ things now, knew what acts had passed in a man's life and even what still might come to pass. Tyrion had as much as confirmed it when Jaime questioned him about the veracity of such claims. As such, he'd be aware of all Jaime's sins, and of Tyrion's role in helping him avoid justice for them once more. Perhaps the wedding was a form of punishment for his brother for aiding in his escape?

 

But why would the young man go on to punish Brienne? She'd been a good ally to the Stark family, unless... _surely he cannot blame her for Lady Stark's death?_ Brienne had only left the woman's side at her orders, tasked with accompanying Jaime safely to Kings Landing all those years ago. If she hadn't been with him, she'd have surely been at the Twins during the wedding, and ultimately have died there also. The Stark boy couldn't be blaming her for following orders, not truly? But with the boy announcing himself as some form of all-seeing raven now, it was hard to know if there was truthfully any logic in his decisions anymore. If there had been any logic to them since Jaime threw him from that tower window.

 

Jaime could barely stand the idea that the two people he loved most in the world were suffering for his actions. Even then, he couldn't be sure which potential reason was most likely the right one. There was only one way he was going to find out the truth of the matter. He'd heard mention of when the wedding was to take place as the repellent men continued their gossiping... if he rode carefully through part of the night, only stopping for half the amount of time he had been using to rest, he might just reach Kings Landing in time to save them both. But first... Jaime had a meeting to attend to with this Red Ronnet character. He wasn't about to let such words be dared uttered against the brother he adored and the woman he loved with his whole being.

 

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Hoping he would receive an opportunity for retribution sooner than later, Jaime was left to consider the words he’d heard the red-headed, weasel faced man announce. He still couldn't understand how someone so pure and honourable as Brienne could have ever been betrothed to such a lout as Ronnet. Jaime hadn't even observed the man for an hour before he had firmly decided that the louse didn't even deserve to breathe the same air as Brienne, let alone have the honour of calling himself the wench’s husband.

 

Jaime was well aware of the jealousy colouring his thoughts, turning the food in his belly into a cold hard stone but he couldn't take his eyes from Ronnet. Unlike the fleeting jealousy he'd felt when he'd first heard of his brother’s betrothal to Brienne, this feeling was all-consuming and only growing stronger the more the man before him laughed and japed about the people Jaime loved most. Within regards to his brother and Brienne, Jaime knew he didn't have all the facts needed to draw a proper conclusion to their surprising match, and likely, once he understood the reasons for the betrothal, everything would make sense to him.

 

He couldn't make sense of Brienne's betrothal to that man, however. She had never mentioned past engagements, not even during the long, cold nights they had spent wrapped around each other in their bed at Winterfell. _Had she cared for him? Had she loved him like Renly, is that why she never mentioned this Ronnet man to me?_ Quietly observing as Ronnet continued to insult Brienne's looks, her voice, her stature and kind-hearted nature, Jaime forced himself to grip the leg of his chair tightly to resist the temptation screaming at him to pull his dagger from its scabbard and launch it at the bastards head. Jaime was confident enough in his skills that his aim would be true enough to take out the man's eye, even if it sadly wouldn't be a strong enough throw to kill Ronnet.

 

"She was a big ugly brute all those years ago, I hate to imagine how much more repulsive she is now. I'm six years older than her, but even then she was as tall as I was and not a feminine curve in sight. How any man could bear to touch that beast is beyond me. I hear the Imp has a strange taste in women, perhaps that's what drew him to her," Ronnet mused.

 

"But why would she marry him, Red? It's not like she needs the coin, not now she's one of the few nobleborn individuals who have the new King’s favour," one of his friends queried.

 

"I'd heard she'd become the Lannisters whore, although the rumours I'd been privy to had inferred it was Jaime Lannister she was dallying with, not the Imp. No doubt they'd got that part wrong, considering the Kingslayer was meant to be fucking his sister, and as such why would he turn from a handsome woman like Queen Cersei to a beast like Brienne the Beauty? No doubt nobody else would marry either of them, so they've no choice but to wed one another. After all, what other man is going to marry an animal such as her?" He shot back before rising, "On that note, I need to relieve myself lads, so go and get me another tankard of ale while I'm gone will you?" And with that parting request, Ronnet walked towards the door leading out of the inn.

 

Waiting until the odious man had passed through the door, Jaime quietly rose from his dark corner to follow Ronnet's path, unnoticed to everyone else occupying the inn. It didn't take long for Jaime to locate him, breeches down and cock in hand as he relieved himself against the back wall of the inn, out of sight from passersby. Waiting until Ronnet had pulled up his breeches, Jaime was behind the man and spinning him round to face him before he'd even fully realised that something was amiss.

 

"This is for Tyrion," Jaime hissed under his breath before delivering a bone breaking blow to the man's nose, punching him in the face when Ronnet tried to grab the dagger sheathed at his waist. "I wouldn't, if I were you. I may be unarmed, yet I'd wager I could still beat the likes of you in a fight," Jaime announced boldly, watching the blood drip freely from Ronnet's nose onto his hand with satisfaction.

  
  
Squinting at him, Ronnet ground out, "What in the Gods' names did I do to you to deserve that?" Before spitting a gob of blood out onto Jaime's foot.

 

"It's not what you did to me, Ronnet." Grabbing the bleeding man tightly by the front of his tunic, Jaime pushed his face close to his, "You won't speak ill of Brienne of Tarth again, do you understand?"

 

"And whose Brienne of Tarth to you? I'll say what I want about that great big cow, and make no mistake," Ronnet insisted, trying to puff out his chest but instead found himself slammed hard against the stone wall of the inn.

 

"Then you'll suffer the consequences, won't you?" Jaime happily announced, his smile feral. "Consider this punishment a warning. If I hear you have besmirched the Lady's name yet again, I'll do more to you than what I'm about to do next," Jaime promised.

 

For the first time since confronting the man, Jaime detected a slight edge of fear in Red Ronnet's face.

 

"And what might you be planning to do?" the man sniveled as droplets of blood continued dripping freely onto Jaime.

 

Jaime merely smiled wider in return, before quickly kneeing Ronnet in the stomach and making the man double over. Kicking Ronnet to the dirt, Jaime loomed over him before placing a knee on the man's chest to ensure he remained on the ground before explaining,

 

"I'm going to leave a little reminder for you, to ensure you keep a civil tongue when discussing those better than yourself," Jaime declared before putting all the strength he possessed behind his fist and punching Ronnet squarely in the jaw, knocking out several teeth in the process.

 

Holding back a groan at the pain in his fist, Jaime counted at least three teeth that Ronnet had to spit out after Jaime's blow. He knew he couldn't fight every man who talked ill of the wench, but this case was different. This man knew her, was betrothed to her, and yet still thought it right to mock Brienne so cruelly. Jaime only hoped she hadn't heard this sort of talk in King's Landing too. _It's times like these that I miss that damned golden monstrosity of a hand father gifted me. I wonder how many teeth I could've knocked out with that instead?_

 

"Why on earth would you do this to me, and for _Brienne of Tarth_ of all women?! Are you distant kin of hers or something?" Ronnet questioned, looking Jaime over with fresh eyes as he cradled his bruised jaw and fingered where his teeth used to reside.

 

Turning to the side, Jaime answered.

 

"Brienne of Tarth saved my life at Winterfell, fighting for the survival of scum like you and everyone else in Westeros. And if her deeds are not enough to ensure your respect, then the fact she's not only a highborn Lady, but also a Knight should. Ser Brienne of Tarth is more important than you could ever be, and this should ensure you don't soon forget that fact. If you dare speak of her again, you won't call her creature, beast, or brute. Her name is Brienne, and you better get used to using it, or I might just return to teach you another lesson," Jaime stated before walking away from the man lying prone on the ground.

 

"Should've known you were Northern scum!" Ronnet spat, "You'll regret this when I see you again, and I will see you again. I'll make you pay for what you've done here, you can count on my word for that!"

 

Jaime didn't give the pathetic excuse of a man a second glance, instead making towards the stables for his horse. Time was precious, and he didn't have anymore of it to waste. He had a wedding to stop.

 

\--------------------------------------------------

 

The closer he got to King’s Landing, the harder Jaime pushed his horse, sure that he'd arrive too late to stop the ceremony. He'd already swapped his horse out three villages ago due to the swift pace he kept and as such, ultimately managed to make it to King’s Landing just in time. With his unkempt, dirty appearance, blending into the crowd of smallfolk milling around King’s Landing proved an easier task than anticipated for Jaime. It didn't take long to learn the wedding would be taking place the following evening.

 

Listening to what snatches of conversation he could, Jaime was confident he could enter the Red Keep unnoticed, and as such, several hours after nightfall had landed, Jaime found himself entering the castle through the same entrance he'd used to locate Cersei. Walking through the space where his sister had perished, he couldn't help looking towards where he'd last seen his sweet sister, bile rising in his throat at the thought of her cold dead form heavy in his arms.

 

But he couldn't linger. While the wedding might take place later that evening, Jaime was sure it would take several hours to properly primp and dress the bride and groom for the ceremony. He’d gathered from Cersei’s wedding that it wasn’t uncommon for the couple being wed to be surrounded by family and attendants whose main purpose was to prepare the bride or groom for their wedding. He’d heard later that his Aunt Genna had regaled Cersei with endless tales of what to expect from married life throughout the day of her nuptials. Jaime had waited hours for Robert to be sufficiently groomed on his wedding day, having attended on him from the early hours of the morning until late into the afternoon. Although why the groom needed more time to prepare than the bride Jaime still couldn't quite answer. Just brushing out the man's hair and beard seemed to be an endless process. As such, Jaime’s window of opportunity to reach Tyrion and Brienne was narrower than he would like.

 

Dismissing his foolish thoughts, Jaime crept through the crypt, silently ascending the stairs and heading towards the White Sword Tower. It had seemed prudent to visit his old rooms before he tried locating Tyrion and Brienne. Once word had reached Cersei of the Dragon Queen reaching their shores, Jaime had stashed away a considerable amount of gold and supplies in case they quickly needed to flee the Keep during an attack. While he hadn't thought to gather those supplies the last time he'd been in the castle, Jaime knew they would be useful in this case, especially if the pair were being held here against their will. And if they were not... _if Tyrion and Brienne don't need my assistance and wish to remain here, I could still use the supplies for my journey East..._

 

It didn't take Jaime long to reach the door to his rooms, using a familiar route he preferred after so many years living in the castle. Gently pushing the door into the chamber open, he was moving towards the loose stone by the desk when he felt a prickling on the back of his neck. Standing still and holding his breath reflexively, Jaime soon became aware of the reason behind the sensation.

 

He was not alone in the Lord Commander's chambers.

 

Instinctively, Jaime turned towards the bed, his hand grasping his sword as he turned, only to find himself freezing at the sight that greeted him there. Heart stuttering, he could barely believe his eyes, unwilling to even blink as he drank in the sight of her almost greedily. He might have thought himself dreaming, but even his dreams couldn't capture her as clear as she was before him now.

 

He noted the changes in her instinctively. Jaime didn't know how long he stood there, with only the moonlight to study her by, but however long it was didn't feel long enough. Even though they had been separated for longer amounts of time than the weeks since he'd seen her last, several things leapt out at Jaime about Brienne's appearance. He noticed she hadn't been cutting her hair, the blonde strands curling closer towards her jaw than her ears like he knew was her preference. In sleep, all the worry seemed to seep from her face, the lines bedded in her skin from frowning smoothing themselves out, making Brienne appear younger and softer, a word he wouldn't dare use to describe the wench in her waking hours. Her face seemed rounder, a part of Jaime noted as he made to step slightly towards her, scuffing his foot against a chair in the darkened room due to his distraction.

 

He noticed the change immediately, saw the tension start returning to her features, noted how her hand started to clench into a fist. Panicking, Jaime did the only thing he could think of. Raising his hand towards her face and noting the slight tremble there, he placed feather light touches on her, gently grazing his fingertips down Brienne's cheek to land against her lips. Noting the tension leave her, Jaime found himself becoming more bold, brushing his knuckles against her soft skin as he leaned in, bestowing a gentle kiss to Brienne's forehead. Leaning closer still, Jaime found himself whispering the words to her before he fully realised what he was doing,

 

"I love you, Brienne of Tarth. You have every right to doubt me. I'm a selfish man, but I swear to the Seven, I love you like I have never loved another, not even Cersei. If you'll allow it I'll spend the rest of my days proving that fact true to you. Even if it means leaving, if that's what you desire. I told you I'd protect you at Winterfell and I intend to keep my promise, even if it means protecting you against myself," Jaime finished, his voice breaking on the last few words.

 

Turning from her like the coward he was, Jaime knew what he needed to do now. He had to find Tyrion, he needed to know where things lay between his brother and Brienne before coming back into her life. He needed to know if she even _wanted_ him back in her life. After what he did, he wouldn't blame her if she never wanted to set eyes on Jaime again.

 

Before he could leave, he found his eyes drawn to something in the moonlight. Walking towards the desk, he looked down on the letter there, eyes barely able to make out the words. But there was one word he recognised, and that sealed his decision to take it with him.

 

Walking towards where he suspected Tyrion would be, Jaime kept repeating one question in his mind. _Why would Brienne be writing me a letter the day before her wedding?_

 

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Jaime didn't get far on his search for Tyrion. Turning down the passage where his brother's chambers had been the last time they had both resided in the castle together, he found himself suddenly staring into the faces of two men wearing Kingsguard armour uncomfortably similar to what he once wore himself. Before he knew what he was doing, Jaime had turned in the other direction, sprinting down the path he'd just walked with the men in swift pursuit behind him.

 

He didn't get far before he felt himself being slammed down into the floor, barely turning his face in time to avoid the broken nose he would have surely received against the thick stone.

 

"Look what we have here, Steffon, seems we have a guest," the guard quietly announced over his shoulder at the other man.

 

"You're making a mistake-" Jaime tried to inform the pair before being cut off with a heavy fist to the small of his back.

 

"Anymore talk and we'll do more than just bruise you up a bit," the man, Steffon, promised.

 

Before he knew what was happening, Jaime found himself being gripped either side by the two Kingsguard, his feet dragging on the stones behind him as they pulled him in the direction of the black cells. He needed to make them understand, panic giving his words a biting edge as he tried once more to explain,

 

"I'm Jaime Lannister, you _imbeciles._ I demand you unhand me at once and take me to my brother!" he asserted strongly.

 

The only response he received to that proclamation was laughter.

 

"If you're Jaime Lannister then I must be the King himself! Everyone knows the Kingslayer died in the burning of King’s Landing," Steffon spat. "A night in the black cells ought to loosen your tongue."

 

Heedless of his ankles scraping against the stone, Jaime pleaded, "Just bring Tyrion or Lady Brienne to me, they'll confirm my identity to you."

 

"Perhaps we ought to get one of them, what if he really is-" the sandy haired guard queried.

 

"Don't be foolish, Androw! I don't care if he looks the double of Lannister, which this man doesn't, so you know. The Imp himself confirmed the death of his brother, and I'm not about to get a reprimand from the Lord Commander for disturbing her in the early hours of the morning _on her wedding day no less,_ just so this man can have his fun."

 

"But perhaps we could-" the younger man tried again.

 

"I'll hear no more about it. I was Kingsguard before you and you’ll listen to me on this matter," Steffon announced threateningly.

 

Every time Jaime tried to speak after that resulted in another mailed fist landing on the soft parts of his body. After several more blows, he found himself facing the rotting door to one of the dreaded black cells. Jaime was thrown in roughly, the heavy door locked swiftly behind him before he could even regain his footing.

 

Seething at the turn of events, at the cruel trickery of the Gods, Jaime screamed, launching himself at the door and rattling it until he eventually ran out of energy and found himself slumping against the nearest wall in defeat.

 

_I should have woken her. I had my moment, I could have had the answers to all my questions right there in that chamber. Who would have thought that without a sword in hand to shield me, the great Jaime Lannister would be nothing more than a coward when it came down to speaking simple words?_

 

Assuring himself that he still had possession of Brienne's letter, Jaime's fingers caressed the scroll lovingly, despite his ignorance regarding its contents. _For all I know, her letter might consist of declarations of hate and disgust._ Even as he had the thought, Jaime dismissed the idea instantly. Brienne wouldn't waste good paper just to write down how much she hated him. Despite the presence of the words, the obvious proof that despite everything that had transpired between them Brienne still thought of him, Jaime still found the letter small comfort compared to the knowledge that the woman who had written its words lay sound asleep above him, blissfully unaware of the close proximity the pair now shared with one another.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author notes regarding content in the chapter:
> 
> About the start with the attempted rape... I don't like how the show ended inferring that everything was going to be all sunshine and rainbows, quite honestly. After years of war, starvation and death, people aren't going to be all lovely and happy just because there is a new ruler who says things will be different this time. Change takes time, and this is my way of showing that it'll take a lot more than Bran being in charge to fix the realm, something Jaime is now well aware of. It also gives Jaime a chance to act independently and show his true character - he can accept the bad aspects of himself, but can he accept the good? He needs to accept that there is more than bad Jaime to him, and saving someone when he could've just kept going by seemed a good start to him making that realisation.
> 
> (In regards to his skills with a sword, yes, he isn't as good as he once was, but he also HAS improved since he was first maimed. He survived the battle at Winterfell, so I figure he can take a couple of low skilled men down quite easily)
> 
> About Jaime's impromptu meeting with Red Ronnet... the book readers amongst you probably recognise the name. For those who don't know, (BOOK SPOILERS) in the books Brienne had had an arranged bethrothal with Ronnet (this was her second betrothal is I remember right) when she was a young girl which he broke in an extremely cruel fashion upon their first meeting. In the books, Jaime meets Red and he makes the mistake of insulting Brienne in front of him, resulting in Jaime slapping the man round the face with his gold hand and sending him away.
> 
> This was a scene I was extremely anticipating in the show, but alas, like most of the good Jaime stuff from the books, the idiotic showrunners decided to cut this scene rather than include it. As such, I wanted to incorporate my variation of the scene in this story at some point, (I hadn't quite figured out where he would appear however) when writing the tavern scene, who should make an appearance but Red Ronnet?! To those of you who are familiar with the scene in the books, I hope you enjoyed this version too!
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER IS THE WEDDING DAY. It's finally here guys! Last time to make bets - will Brienne and Tyrion end up marrying, or will Jaime find a way to escape and stop them? (Next POV will be in two parts due to suspected length of it, but the plan is for you to have the answer to this in the first half!!)


	9. Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to lbswasp for taking the time to be my beta, especially as you've been unwell and very busy. It honestly means a lot that you still take the time to help make this story better and listen to my ramblings :) 
> 
> I just wanted to apologise for how long this took to update - I had some really bad news about a family member who is seriously ill, and its not looking good. It really affected my writing, and I needed to take a little time to sort out my head before coming back to this. 
> 
> But despite the delays, I want to assure those of you who read this that I'm not going to abandon the story. Life might make updating difficult, but there will always be an update, and the story will eventually be completed, however long it may take (I say that because when I began writing I thought it might hit 50k max, and we've already surpassed that!)
> 
> So... its the wedding day! I hope you all find it satisfying, more notes at the end, but I'd wait until you read the chapter before looking at them due to spoilers.
> 
> So... onto the chapter!!

 

The day of the wedding came much too soon for Tyrion, and he was much too sober for it. Gazing down through his window at the servants scurrying about the courtyard making preparations for the feast to come, Tyrion knew the next several hours would inevitably be torturous. Often, when a highborn couple were to marry the day was generally marked by a lavish ceremony to celebrate the union. Indeed, it was a prime opportunity to boast before the other rich Houses the good fortune both families had had in being able to find a suitable match, and of the close alliance that would be forged once the families became kin. While Tyrion didn't remember all that much of Cersei and Robert's wedding due to the copious amounts of wine flowing freely at the feast, he remembered enough of the planning beforehand to know it had been a costly affair for his father to finance.

 

Ordinarily, the celebratory feast was what most people anticipated about a wedding. Scandal was good fodder for gossip, but the smallfolk and highborn alike enjoyed any excuse to get drunk, eat until their britches were fit to burst and listen to the songs of singers that began pleasant and soon turned bawdy. This was especially true at a highborn wedding, where the wine was likely to be an exquisitely expensive vintage and the food the best fare both families could afford. It was generally regarded as improper to scrimp on such a significant occasion, and often considered to be unlucky for the wedded pair should their families choose to do so.

 

Most marriage ceremonies in the South took place in the morning due to them being officiated in the Light of the Seven, allowing for a full day of continuous festivities. Indeed, when Tyrion had wed Sansa they had been forced to sit through hours upon hours of drinking, dancing and sarcastic felicitations following their own nuptials. Although he wasn't much-loved by his father, Tywin had opened his purse strings wide enough to ensure he provided the best meat, mead and merriment at their wedding feast all the same. A Lannister always shows their wealth, after all, especially where others might be taking note.

 

_If things had been different then, I might have even been able to enjoy the celebration myself._ He remembered the gnawing feeling deep in his gut throughout that wedding and as such had felt it prudent to avoid all feast foods on offer. He'd barely been able to drink the wine without fretting he might retch it back up over the main table, or more alarmingly, over the gown of his new bride.

 

He doubted that his wedding to Brienne would be much different in that regard, despite the fact it would be a much shorter ceremony. Once again, Tyrion doubted there would be much joy to be had in the day ahead. The only beneficial point was that he wouldn't be forced to sit for hours feeling his face ache at the false smile he would have to raise when accepting congratulations this time, for this wedding was due to take place significantly later into the day.

 

The choice for his wedding to Brienne to take place in the evening, typical for a ceremony before the Old Gods, was not one Tyrion was averse to. It meant their presence at the feast would be limited to an hour, perhaps two at most, before they would be expected to retire to their new chambers and consummate the match. However, it vexed him that he didn’t understand the reason behind the alteration to tradition. Generally speaking, highborns in the South traditionally married in the Sept, not the godswood.

 

It had been Bran's idea, and in truth neither Tyrion or Brienne cared much about the wedding to argue in favour of a more customary ceremony. They hadn't even felt strongly enough about the wedding to argue for the ceremony to be held in the Light of the Seven. Instead, Bran had proposed that they marry before the Old Gods, a recommendation Brienne and Tyrion accepted without debate. The King barely elaborated on any of his suggestions these days, but when pressed for an answer he'd merely explained that a marriage ceremony before the Old Gods would be more beneficial to Tyrion and Brienne at this time compared to a ceremony before the Seven. Why Bran felt a wedding ceremony between his Hand and Lord Commander should consist of a typically Northern ceremony, and why he felt this would be beneficial to the realm Tyrion truly couldn't comprehend, no matter how often he considered the suggestion.

 

He knew he wasn't going to receive any more of an explanation from Bran than that, however. After the many private audiences he had had with the King since becoming Hand, Tyrion felt himself somewhat able to read the young man, or at least that's what he liked to believe, and as such could recognise when he was beat. Bran would tell them what they needed to know when they needed to know it, and not a moment sooner. Still, it didn't stop Tyrion from trying to ascertain the reasons behind several of the decisions the young man had made since becoming King, and this situation would be no different. Tyrion was never much for religion, and it wasn't like Brienne was marrying him for love. What did it matter which Gods they swore their oaths before?

 

Rubbing the freshly shaved skin of his jaw, Tyrion found himself unaccustomed to the feel of flesh beneath his fingers compared to the wiry hairs of the beard he had grown quite fond of. He'd been clean-shaven when he'd married Sansa, too. Grasping the pitcher of spiced honey wine he had ensured would be transported from Lannisport, and pouring himself a generous cup, he resolutely tried to keep his mind on the day at hand instead of allowing it to wander towards thoughts of a previous wedding day.

 

Sadly, he hadn't been having much success.

 

She'd looked captivating, of course. Elegant and almost irresistible, the gown accentuating the small curves and features of womanhood that she was only just beginning to possess, not that Tyrion had permitted himself such thoughts of the girl when they'd wed. He couldn't allow them now, either, angry at himself for imagining how Sansa might look if she were the one marrying him today, the confident bride she would make compared to the scared child she had been when they'd wed in the Great Sept, before so much had changed between them.

 

Tyrion couldn't resist picturing how perhaps, if they were marrying now she might look at him with something akin to happiness at seeing him standing there at the altar rather than the dreaded resignation she had actually worn that day. The words Sansa had spoken in the crypts returned to him then, echoing in his mind like they had so many times before in the dark seclusion of night since she'd uttered them, _you were the best of them._ He chuckled to himself, an ugly, bitter sound as he mulled the words over, considering the softly spoken declaration from every angle, picking them apart for any hidden meanings he might find, just as he had done countless times before. Finally he settled on the one thought he could never silence... _Hardly a compliment compared to the monsters you were beholden to. If I was the best of them, then you must have truly endured agony in their hands._

 

Tyrion's hand tightened on the goblet as he considered the abuses Sansa had surely suffered while he was in the East, too busy falling under the spell of Daenerys to give his young wife much more than a passing thought from time to time. Although he doubted anyone alive knew the full extent of her suffering while married to the Bolton bastard, rumours had circulated all the same, and Tyrion had heard several sickening enough to turn his stomach just at the mere thought of them. He was about to drain the cup to drown his regrets when a sudden _rap, rap, rap_ found him involuntarily tipping some of its contents on the stone floor before he fully realised what he'd done. The interloper knocked again, gentler the second time, but unequivocally announcing he would have company this morning all the same, whether he wanted it or not. Who in Westeros could be brave or foolhardy enough to visit me today?

 

It wasn't uncommon on the day of the wedding for the bride and groom to have attendants to keep them company before the ceremony. Usually on such occasions the groom would be accompanied by several family members like their father, any brothers, uncles or even cousins to jest with them about the future pleasures of wedded life. They would also try and impart any useful knowledge they may have gathered from their own misadventures during the small, private breakfast feast most highborn grooms would partake in. Nevertheless, Tyrion had expected to spend his time before the wedding in solitary contemplation. Or, more honestly, getting mostly drunk while he contemplated the twists and turns his life had taken before being swiftly forced to sober up and face the future laid before him. After all, Tyrion didn't have family to attend him on this day anymore, and as such could spend the time beforehand however he so wished.

 

This was not the case for Tyrion. He might have hoped, once, that if he had married again and married for love that this time his brother would be by his side, offering him his unwavering support while making several japes at Tyrion's expense to put him at ease. Perhaps even relatives of the bride might join him in the pre-wedding celebrations, if his relationship with the family was cordial enough. Tyrion wouldn't admit this to another soul, but in his weaker moments when he'd imagined what could have been had he married another, he couldn't help but wish himself accompanied by a grinning Jaime and strangely enough, a somber but good-hearted Jon Snow. He didn't like to dwell on these thoughts, however. Best not to linger on notions that could never come to pass.

 

Pulling the heavy wooden door ajar, Tyrion felt startled upon seeing whose face was staring back at him.

 

"Do you not have orders you should be following? You're no longer my squire, there is no need for you to chaperone me on my wedding day." Tyrion tried to inject a teasing tone, but failing miserably, downed the remaining wine from his goblet in one short gulp before stepping aside to admit his visitor.

 

Walking into the chambers and taking a seat as he had done many times before, Pod replied in good spirits, "Ser Brienne issued me this day to spend as I wish. I have no duties until tomorrow afternoon, when I'm to train some of the greener squires."

 

Refilling half his goblet with the honeyed wine and liberally filling another cup for Pod, Tyrion kept his gaze trained on the stone wall before him as he enquired, "Would you not rather spend your precious leisure time in the tavern getting merry, or perhaps in the brothel being pleasured by the lovely young women I hear they've shipped in since the coronation?"

 

"I don't think I would, my Lord. I'm right where I want to be today. Just as I was on your last wedding," Pod spoke the last sentence in a quieter tone, before adding, "And besides, who else is going to ensure you look presentable at the ceremony if not me? I remember when you wed Lady Sansa, I believe you were already halfway to drunkenness by this time and if not for me, you might have begun attempting to wear your breeches as a doublet."

 

Tyrion couldn't help himself, his laughter ripping from him without permission. And if his laugh had a touch of mania to it, Pod was a good enough man not to acknowledge the fact. Tyrion was glad for the laughter, as it was highly likely that after today he wouldn't find much to laugh about for quite some time.

 

\--------------------------------------

 

It was late into the afternoon before Tyrion could get away from his chambers. Pod had done his best to keep his spirits high and make sure he didn't drink _too_ much, ensuring he wouldn't be too unfit to say his vows in a few short hours. While Tyrion still had hope of Jaime riding in and stopping the wedding, that hope was rapidly evaporating with every hour that passed. _He's never let me down before. Where are you, Jaime? Could you really be unaware of what's happening on this day?_

 

Eventually, Tyrion managed to convince Pod to give him time alone, even allowing the young man to confiscate the stash of wine he'd taken to keeping hidden in his chambers the last time he had been Hand in King's Landing. He'd had his suspicions back then as to why his supplies would get smaller without any memory of drinking the tart contents of the bottles, but then he'd supposed he had merely been too drunk to recall how much wine he'd truly consumed. It wasn't like he couldn't just afford to buy more anyway. Obviously that was not the case. _I really must find a better hiding spot for the good wine from now on._

 

It had taken much wheedling on Tyrion's part to get Pod to agree to give him his privacy, and he knew the alcohol had been the main concern keeping him there once he'd requested some solitude. Pod was always loyal to him, but he wasn't about to allow Tyrion to make this day any harder on Brienne than it was likely to be. Pod likely feared if left alone, Tyrion would end up drowning in his bathtub mere hours before they were due to wed. _I need to bathe, Pod, and unless you truly wish to scrub me down yourself, it is a task I would rather partake in alone. I promise not to drown before the wedding; I'll even let you take what's left of the wine if that will settle your thoughts on the matter._

 

It wasn't that he didn't trust Pod. In truth, he was one of the few people that Tyrion did trust entirely, especially with the new order in their world still being so fragile. No, his reticence had less to do with trust and more to do with reducing any potential discomfort. He wasn't completely unaware of the malicious gossip that had spread through the castle about his motives for marrying the Maid of Tarth and her motives for marrying him in return. And while Tyrion suspected that if Pod was aware of the true reason for their match he wouldn't judge them, Tyrion still felt it wasn't his place to make such an admission. It was Brienne's business, and Tyrion wasn't about to break her trust on the first day of their married life by confiding secrets that were not his own to share.

 

It didn't take him long to reach his destination, surprised at the lack of guards barring his way. Before he could finish raising his fist to knock on the door before him, Tyrion heard a firm voice speak from inside the room.

 

"You may enter, Lord Tyrion."

 

Pushing open the heavy door and allowing it to close firmly behind him, Tyrion made sure to bow appropriately before replying, "My King."

 

Gesturing with his hand, Bran replied, "Do sit down, my Lord. You may ask me all the questions you wish, but I feel this will be a longer conversation than you anticipated upon seeking me out."

 

Tyrion had barely sat in the plush, moss coloured chair before the words burst forth from him unbidden, "Have you managed to see Jaime? I know the last time I asked you to look you couldn't find him, and that it has not been long since I last asked you for news of my brother. But do you know whether Jaime is alive, at least?"

 

Bran simply stared at Tyrion for several uncomfortable moments, his head tilting slightly as if reading the older man sat across from him. Tyrion was fully aware of Bran examining his demeanor, clearly noting the severe frown marring Tyrion's features and the balled fists held tight against his sides, distinctly unhidden from the King's view. And yet, Tyrion did not break his gaze, his eyes meeting Bran's with an open challenge, well used to the Three Eyed Raven's ways since becoming his Hand.

 

"I have no new information to report since you last asked after your brother, Lord Tyrion." Bran finally announced, the only sound following his words the crackle of the fire, low in the grate.

 

Tyrion was about to rise from the chair and return to his rooms when Bran raised his hand again, this time to stall him.

 

"Do you and Ser Brienne still consent to your ceremony taking place before the Old Gods?" Bran queried.

 

"As far as I'm aware, we do." Tyrion replied tersely, his mind busy conjuring thoughts of Jaime dead and rotting deep in a forest somewhere. _If he cannot find him, surely that can only mean one thing..._

 

"In that case, I will officiate the ceremony between you," Bran announced without emotion.

 

"I thought..." Pulled from his bleak thoughts, Tyrion chose his next words carefully, "It was my understanding that unlike a ceremony performed in the Light of the Seven with a septon, marriages before the Old Gods do not have an officiant?"

 

"Usually they do not. However, there have been notable exceptions in history where certain marriage ceremonies have been performed by rulers or other members of the royal household. While this is rare, it is not unheard of."

 

"An instance of this would be..." Tyrion wondered, his mind surprisingly empty when he tried to think of his own example.

 

"A relatively recent example would be when Dowager Queen Visenya Targaryen married her only son to his first wife, Alys Harroway," Bran supplied emotionlessly.

 

"But why would you do this?" Tyrion pondered, having learnt better than to question his King's retellings of historical events.

 

Looking away into the flames crackling low in the grate, Bran explained, "The answer to your question is a simple one. I suspect it would be beneficial for all involved if I were to have a part in the marriage ceremony for two reasons. The Kingdom is not yet secure, and this is the first time a member of the Kingsguard has been allowed to marry since they were created. My involvement will help quieten some discontent on that matter. Without my participation, some of the more traditional Lords will object, and as such will cause needless suffering which may affect the desired outcome for the realm that we are all working towards."

 

Scrutinising the words the young man before him had just spoken, Tyrion could see the reasoning behind such a supposition, even if he suspected he was only being informed of half the story. Tyrion was well aware that certain factions in the realm believed that once he and the Lord Commander were wedded, Ser Brienne would suddenly become incapable of leading such an esteemed order, or that her loyalties were only bound to become irrevocably split once they had children.

 

He'd even heard people state that while she looked like a man, she was nothing more than a weak maiden at heart, and that weakness would soon present itself during battle and times of hardship. Tyrion's mind repeated the words he'd heard spoken brazenly just days ago, _it's well-known women cannot be trusted with authority or responsibility. The only places they belong are the bed and birthing chambers._ Strangely, an image of Sansa swam before him, resplendent upon seeing her again in Winterfell, as strong as any man he'd ever met. Stronger than many of them, in truth. _The North is where she always truly belonged,_ he thought wistfully, another question growing on his lips.

 

"Have you had any word of Lady Sansa since she left for Winterfell, my King?" Tyrion couldn't help asking, yet hating himself as he did so. _She would have written by now if she wanted you to know anything about her travels._

 

"I believe she is mere days from Winterfell. My sister is pragmatic, and unlike King Robert she felt it more prudent to travel ahead with a trusted guard so she could reach Winterfell in good time instead of travelling slowly with the entirety of the men. Had she remained with the host, they would have expected her to rest more often on account of her sex and station, resulting in wasted time and supplies," Bran informed him.

 

"Your sister has always been a smart woman. I can see she will rule the North well and likely with a fair hand, something it greatly has need of," Tyrion responded, his voice soft as he thought of Sansa and the sad glint he had seen in her eye when they had last parted. _You're marrying another and yet here you sit, feeling heartsick because Sansa hasn't sent you a raven. You need to learn to move on, and stop wishing for things not meant for an Imp like you..._

 

"The North needs to see a ruler return to them. I trust we will have word of Sansa's coronation soon after her return to Winterfell. In fact, I know that she has already written a missive to Maester Wolkan to ensure the relevant arrangements will be ready upon her arrival. She's also written letters to both you and Brienne, but when I last looked upon my sister her only raven had yet to return from Winterfell," Bran supplied, his eyes knowing. "If you could make Ser Brienne aware of this fact, I would be much obliged. I would hate to think that she thought my sister had forgotten her, when things couldn't be further from the truth."

 

Suddenly finding himself coughing around the dry lump in his throat, Tyrion answered hoarsely, "Of course, I will make sure she's aware of all the facts when we next speak." Somehow, he couldn't quite look the young man in the eye as he said the words.

 

When Tyrion left the King's rooms, his mind was so preoccupied that he almost didn't notice the two Kingsguards situated at the far end of the passageway. Once his eyes passed over them, however, he found he couldn't stop staring, a curiosity building inside him at their strange demeanor. The two Kingsguards were stood hunched towards one another, the tone of their voices carrying down to where Tyrion stood even as their words remained muffled. Intrigued, Tyrion began silently moving nearer, stopping to stand in a dark corner once he was close enough to hear the words passing between the pair.

 

"He says it's just someone causing mischief," the man on the left spoke confidently.

 

"Have you been to the black cells, to check for..."

 

That stumped Tyrion. As far as he was aware, they had no current occupants in the black cells, the horror laden section of the Keep empty for the first time since Robert had been King. Tyrion also hadn't been informed of any troublemakers lately, and as Hand, Tyrion ensured he remained informed about _everything._ But before he could take more than a few tentative steps towards them to make his enquiries, the men swiftly began moving once more, continuing their checks on the castle's security.

 

Feeling mildly perplexed, Tyrion began the short walk back to his own rooms, aware of several preparations he still had to make for the ceremony to come. All the same, he couldn't help wondering what had unsettled the two Kingsguards.

 

_What could be so interesting as to cause two grown men, two Kingsguards no less, to gossip like a pair of washerwomen when they should be diligently following orders?_

 

\--------------------------------------

 

The hour of the ceremony finally arrived, and yet Tyrion still did not feel ready. Making his way towards the godswood alone and with a heavy heart, he soon found himself standing in place ready to await his bride. His King was situated underneath the tree, ready to officiate the ceremony - what little he could officiate, that was. Glancing at his surroundings, Tyrion was startled by how untouched this section of the Keep seemed compared to the recent damage of the castle; the natural woody scents strangely helping to ease his shredded nerves. _Perhaps a ceremony here was for the best, rather than in the makeshift Sept._ The Sept of Baelor had been destroyed by Cersei years ago, and a new one had not yet been built, would take years to even finish building once they began, in truth. Currently, there was only a small altar erected in the space where the Sept once belonged.

 

He had always known that there might be a chance Jaime wouldn't return to them, perhaps _couldn't_ return to them, and that he would be forced to go through with the marriage just as he'd proposed. Tyrion had decided some time before his proposal to Brienne that his new niece or nephew should not suffer for the folly of his sibling. However, such acknowledgement didn't make it any easier when faced with the reality of the wedding rapidly looming before him.

 

_At least with this wedding taking place here it stops me from comparing it too much with-_ Tyrion stopped his mind before it could continue that thought, intent on banishing all thoughts of his other bride from his mind during the ceremony, aware of how unfair it would be to Brienne to be thinking of another during his wedding to her. They might not have chosen this marriage for love, but the least he could do was to grant Brienne the respect she deserved by not comparing her to another. After all she had done to protect his brother, and all the suffering she had faced at his hand, that was the least Tyrion could do for her.

 

Regarding the few guests permitted to the ceremony, Tyrion couldn't help but feel fortunate that this wedding wouldn't have as great an audience compared to what most weddings in the capital received. When his gaze passed over Bronn, he was disturbed to see regret in the man's eyes, even as he levelled a wink Tyrion's way. Returning the gesture with a small grimace and a nod of acknowledgement, Tyrion continued observing the guests while they waited.

 

He noted Tarly looking strangely furtive, and Tyrion couldn't help but wonder what possible reason there could be for such behaviour. _Perhaps he suspects I'm being cuckolded into this marriage?_ His mind supplied, causing him a strange sort of amusement. _If the man thinks Brienne capable of such dishonesty, then clearly he doesn't know the Lady Commander of the Kingsguard all that well._ Moving his gaze to the guest speaking with Lord Tarly, Tyrion was pleasantly surprised to see Ser Davos in attendance. The man had a sad demeanor about him however, and it made Tyrion uneasy to see the older man looking so forlorn.

 

Tyrion was dismayed to note how Pod wasn't in attendance, and although he would deny it to anyone brave enough to enquire, a part of him was also hurt at the slight. Of all the people he expected to see at the wedding, Pod was the only one he would've been sure would be in attendance. _But then, perhaps he cannot bring himself to witness such a farce as this is sure to be._ It was clear that while the guests present were likely unaware of the reasons for the match, none of them were dense enough to believe this wedding to be the result of a love match, and the uncomfortability that realisation afforded them was clear to anyone who cared to look.

 

Before he could ruminate too long on such thoughts, Tyrion observed the changing behaviour in his guests, realising they could see Brienne while his own view remained obstructed by a large elm beside the entrance door. The quiet hum of words passing between them seemed almost loud in his ears as they took in full view of her, yet when Tyrion caught sight of Brienne, he understood the reason behind their whispering. _Jaime would have found her so beautiful in this moment. If only he could be here to see Brienne for himself._

 

While not an attractive woman by Westerosi standards, it was hard to ignore the great pains someone had gone to to make Brienne feel beautiful on a day where all brides should feel attractive. Brienne's hair had grown since Tyrion had first encountered her, and while still too short to put into the twists and knots favoured by the women of court, someone had taken the time to arrange it in delicate waves around her face. This had the benefit of softening her harsher features while the small seed pearls weaved into her yellow strands complimented the paleness of her skin in a way most becoming.

 

The only other ornamentation on Brienne's person was the small, elegant brooch she wore to secure her maiden's cloak around her person. While they had also agreed that Brienne would wear neither armour or a gown for their wedding, Tyrion was taken by surprise by the level of femininity sewn into the tunic she was wearing. _I think this is the most feminine I have ever seen the Maid of Tarth,_ he couldn't help acknowledging, still astounded at the effort she had gone to for the ceremony, considering just how against it he knew her to be.

 

Raising his gaze to meet her face, Tyrion was soon brought back to the moment, the nauseated feeling in his stomach hitting him strongly as he saw the rapidly greying pallor settling over Lady Brienne's face. Raising an eyebrow in mock challenge while keeping his face emotionless, Tyrion hoped it conveyed all he was feeling. _Are you ready to do this? It's not too late to retreat from the plan._ A hardness seemed to settle over Brienne then, and she nodded at him, almost imperceptibly. If he had to put words to her reply, he imagined it would be something similar to, _as ready as you are, my Lord. Knights don't run from challenge or duty._

 

It was then that Tyrion finally noticed Pod beside Brienne in the place usually reserved for the bride's father or closest kin, and he immediately understood his absence before the ceremony began. _If anyone should be giving Brienne away, it should be Selwyn Tarth. But failing him, I'm glad it's someone who at least cares for our Lady Knight._ Looking Pod in the eye, he was surprised to see the man aiming a gentle smile in his direction before Pod glanced at Brienne and gave her the same soft look. Tyrion noted that Pod gently squeezed the hand Brienne had placed in the crook of his arm before stepping aside. _Perhaps she's not as sure of this plan as I first thought._

 

Tyrion was soon shaken from his perceptions by the voice of another, and the realisation that the moment he had dreaded, that he'd valiantly hoped would be avoided, had ultimately arrived.

 

"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" Bran questioned, his voice free of any inflections.

 

"Ser Brienne of House Tarth comes here to be wed," Pod returned, voice only slightly shaking. "Who comes to claim her?"

 

"Lord Tyrion of Casterly Rock," Tyrion responded automatically, his mind recalling everything he knew about Northern ceremonies. "Who gives her?"

 

"Ser Podrick of House Payne, Ser Brienne's fellow Kingsguard brother and second in command."

 

"Ser Brienne," Bran spoke, his gaze focused on the woman before him, "on this night, before the Old Gods and all those present, will you take the heir of Casterly Rockas your husband?"

 

"I will take him," Brienne acquiesced.

 

"Will the heir of Casterly Rock take Ser Brienne as his wife?" Bran asked.

 

Suddenly Tyrion found himself under the unblinking scrutiny of the King, Bran's eyes boring into him unnervingly as he waited for Tyrion's reply.

 

"He will," Tyrion responded, ignoring the troublesome sensation running through him as he said the words.

 

The rest of the ceremony passed without note, Tyrion replying easily at the appropriate moments. However, if someone were to ask what words were spoken to him and which words he responded with, Tyrion would be unable to give them a true answer. He had not long exchanged the maiden's cloak of sapphire blue for the bride's cloak of Lannister red when Bran made his declaration.

 

"When you rise, it will be as husband and wife," Bran announced to the pair.

 

Gazing at his new wife, Tyrion offered her a hand to help her rise from where she was still kneeling before the great oak. He couldn't help feeling startled when Brienne only hesitated a moment before taking it, offering his hand a squeeze of solidarity as they turned to face their guests. Tyrion couldn't bear to glance across at their faces, to see the looks of pity that were sure to be plain there before him. Risking a glimpse at the new Lady Lannister, he wasn't surprised to see her face blank, the flaming red of her cheeks the only thing giving away any potential emotions she might be feeling. _Better than the grey pallor that was washing across her features throughout the ceremony,_ Tyrion acknowledged.

 

Walking shakily towards the door that would lead them free of the godswood, they were almost at the exit when he began hearing the heavy footfalls and muffled curses signalling someone rushing towards them.

  
  
"Stop, wait!" Tyrion heard through the wood before the door burst open, his cousin Daven almost falling through it. Upon seeing them the colour leached out the younger man's face as he continued in a strangled tone, "I got to him as soon as I could, Tyrion. If I'd known he was in the cells earlier, I would've stopped this from happening..."

 

Tyrion was about to ask what Daven might mean when he heard him, unable to accept that he was truly hearing who he thought. That the voice belonged to the person he had desperately longed to see each day since their separation. But the truth was undeniable. Tyrion knew that he could spend five years without hearing so much as a whisper from him, and yet he'd always be able to identify its owner.

 

"Tyrion! Brienne! Don't do it..." Jaime burst through the doorway then, face pale and sweating as he continued, panting heavily, "Stop... the wedding..."

 

Tyrion's eyes locked with Jaime's, the horror and gut wrenching heartbreak clear to everyone in the courtyard as his brothers gaze moved from Tyrion, to Brienne, and then landed on the hands still lightly pressed together and the Lannister cloak draped over Brienne’s shoulders.

 

He could feel his whole body numbing, his heart beating erratically even as a cold sweat broke out over him. He couldn't believe it, Daven's words repeating themselves in his mind as he finally understood their meaning. _Jaime was here, he was here for Gods know how long. If we'd only waited, he would've been in time to stop us... Oh Jaime, what have I done..._

 

He didn't know what made him do it, but instead of trying to offer words of explanation to the brother whose fate he had fretted over every day since their last meeting, Tyrion instead found himself turning to face Bran Stark. He was still as he'd left him, sat securely in his wheelchair before the leafless heart tree. But instead of looking contrite the young man merely looked speculative as he met Tyrion's gaze, his head turning away from him slightly as he observed the scene taking place before him, to better take in every word of the cacophony taking place behind Tyrion.

 

Several impressions passed through Tyrion's mind in that moment, but it was one overriding thought that stood clear and rocked through him with a realisation so sharp he physically ached. _He's been lying to me,_ Tyrion recognised. _Bran knew where Jaime was all along, likely knew this afternoon, and yet chose to keep it from me._

 

The question was _why?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will fix this! (that ending might not be what you were expecting, but it'll all be explained in Tyrion II!)
> 
> This is a Brienne/Jaime and Sansa/Tyrion fic, trust me when I say I have plans to fix this! There might be a fair bit of angst about the situation, but without going into any details, I'm a lover of happy endings. I'm not about to leave my favourite pairings miserable and separated like this! Things will right itself, they just have something to do first to make that possible.
> 
> I just wanted to take a moment to thank all of you who have taken the time to read, leave kudos and bookmark my story. A special thank you goes out to those of you who have kindly left me a comment on my story, especially those of you who have left me multiple comments across several chapters! It means more than you can know. 
> 
> Hopefully the explanations to come in Chapter 10 will satisfy any questions you might have! Feel free to leave a comment letting me know what you think about this... development?


	10. Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to lbswasp for taking the time to be my beta :) 
> 
> So... I'm SO SO SORRY this chapter took this long to upload. There was some miscommunication in sending the chapter, then real life got in the way... BUT the good thing is that the next chapter is complete, and I should be able to start chapter 12 soon, and as such, you may get another update sooner than usual if things work out to plan :D 
> 
> I also got a comment a while ago that someone found this fic via a tumblr comment? Did any of you guys find my fic through something other than ao3, and if so, what was it? :o
> 
> Wow, the amount of comments you guys gave me for the last chapter was amazing! Thank you so much for your feedback on it! I hope you appreciate this one just as much, more on the chapter at the bottom :D
> 
> So... onto the chapter!!

 

The longer Tyrion stared at Bran, the more his fingers itched to hold a crossbow. _I might even be tempted to shoot,_ he couldn't help his mind whispering, his vision blurring slightly as he continued to seethe at the obvious deceit played upon everyone present by their _beloved_ ruler. And yet he did not move his eyes from Bran's, not even as his King wordlessly indicated that Tyrion should turn around to face the growing cacophony taking place behind him. _How could he? How could he do this to us, after all we have gone through..._

 

Tyrion couldn't understand it.

 

He knew Bran was detached from emotions, but to be so cold as to conceive an action such as this? He hadn't thought the young man capable of such a thing. If Bran really did see everything, as he had previously stated, then surely he understood what he had just done to them all by orchestrating this match? But then, much too often when Tyrion looked at Bran, he still saw that small boy he had once been before him, joyous at having a piece of normality returned to him when Tyrion delivered his plans for a saddle so Bran could ride once more. Bran had not been that boy for many years, and Tyrion was only just now realising the reality that that boy never did return from North of the Wall. That that boy might as well be dead, for all this shell before him remembered of feelings like love and empathy.

 

Before his anger could begin to subside at the thought of what Brandon Stark might have been, Tyrion found himself remembering the words Bran had spoken during their conversation that afternoon. He remembered the pointed reminder Bran ensured he made to Tyrion that Sansa had not forgotten him or Brienne. He well remembered the hint he had thought was there, that the message was really meant for _him,_ and his fury ignited anew.

 

If it wasn't considered poor manners and bad taste to bring weapons to a wedding ceremony, especially after the massacre at Robb Stark's nuptials, Tyrion might have had a chance at lifting a weapon from one of the scant number of guests, a shortsword or a dagger. He couldn't help following that thought through, imagining himself launching at their King where he sat aloof and still. Eyeing Bronn speculatively, Tyrion swiftly dismissed the idea from his mind. Any weapons Bronn might be carrying would be too well concealed to remove from the man quickly. And regardless, even if Tyrion was serious about his plot, his short, dumpy legs wouldn't reach the crippled young man in time before he was pounced upon by one of the loyal Kingsguard currently present.

 

It was then that Tyrion finally turned towards the ruckus behind him, too clamorous to continue ignoring anymore. He was just in time to see his new bride storm from the room, almost running from it, as the cloak he placed upon her shoulders billowed behind her, a reminder of her new station. Tyrion couldn't help but admire how her long legs made her escape a much quicker affair than what his own would be, despite the sense of foreboding that began filling him as his gaze eventually landed on the tormented face of his brother.

 

His eyes immediately moved to the vivid droplets of scarlet travelling down from his Jaime's lip and spreading on the rough, lightly coloured material of his shirt. If the split lip on Jaime's face was any indication, then his brother’s reunion with Brienne had gone about as well as one could have surmised. _If he expected her to swoon into his arms at the mere sight of him, then he's a bigger fool than I already suspected..._ Seeing the look of dejection on Jaime's face, Tyrion couldn't halt himself from trying to lighten the mood in the best way he knew how.

 

"Just be glad she didn't have Oathkeeper on her, otherwise you might have found yourself a halfman like me." Tyrion tried to smile as he said the words, to quirk his lip _just so,_ something he had done thousands of times before with Jaime. Instead, he found his face freezing partway through the action, resembling more an ugly grimace than a smile, while the acid in his throat ceased his ability to say more, his rage burning all other words in his throat away.

 

"I'm lucky she even remained present long enough to deliver this lovers caress," Jaime indicated his split lip. "If she didn't care, she wouldn't still be this angry, would she?" Jaime wondered, the tone of doubt in his words plain to Tyrion's ears. Before he knew what he was doing, Tyrion had already begun pulling his brother aside, outside the range of the prying eyes and ears of the guests present. As he did so, his mind kept repeating the words of his brother, his anger growing with every repetition.

 

Tyrion couldn't help himself.

 

"If she didn't _care?_ " Tryion could feel all his bitterness and fury spilling out, directing itself at the brother he had never believed would let him down until this day. Whispering harshly, he reprimanded "You broke her heart, Jaime! You left her in as unenviable situation as any maid could be in. You betrayed her trust, her _love,_ and for what? For Cersei, who sent Bronn to murder us both because she felt spurned? You never did appreciate the gifts the God’s bestowed on you brother, but of all the ones you pushed aside, this has to be the worst you disregarded. You were in a position not many of us are fortunate enough to experience, to not only love someone and be loved in return, but to also have nothing in your path to stop you marrying your beloved. And you threw it all away. I love you Jaime, but sometimes... sometimes, you make it difficult." Tyrion finished, his raging tones not once rising highly enough to be heard by any but the one his words were meant for.

 

Jaime was silent for several moments, a look of deep contemplation on his features before he returned, "Then what do you suggest I do to fix matters, dear brother?"

 

Tyrion found himself speechless, coughing as his cheeks began to burn at the spectacle he had made of himself, and the secondhand embarrassment he couldn't help feeling on his brother’s behalf. _Sometimes you really are a fool, Jaime._

 

He snapped, "What do I suggest? I suggest you go after her you fool, that you take any punishment she deems you need to suffer to earn back her trust, and spend this day and the rest of your days begging her forgiveness until she feels you worthy enough to deserve it. That's what I suggest you do, Jaime."

 

"But would that be... proper, now?" Jaime queried, his gaze flickering to the maiden's cloak Tyrion could see fluttering over the branch of the heart tree it had been placed upon.

 

"Let me worry about the current... marital arrangement," Tyrion insisted. "For now, all you need to worry about is Brienne of Tarth, and whether she'll be gracious enough to allow you in the same room as her, let alone time enough to explain your witless actions."

 

Tyrion didn't wait to see if Jaime took his advice, but if the steps leading to the open doorway were any indication, Tyrion surmised that he did. Turning towards the shocked and curious faces of the guests still present, Tyrion could see that every onlooker was clearly speculative and full of questions. Tyrion's eyes fell once more on the man he had championed as King.

 

"Gather in the small council's chamber. Both myself and the King will join you once we have gotten certain matters resolved," Tyrion announced authoritatively.

 

Despite the seriousness of his tone, Tyrion knew there were some observers present who would likely be unwilling to heed his command, their curiosity stronger than their subservience. However, he was unable to predict the identity of the person who would be the one to debate him.

 

"My Lord, perhaps it would be best to have this conversation with only trusted company present?" Ser Davos suggested, face betraying little, however his eyes showed how uneasy he felt about the situation at hand. Tyrion wasn't sure who the old Lord was more concerned about, Tyrion or Bran.

 

"Do as Lord Tyrion says," Bran announced. "We may be some time, but once we have concluded our conversation I will join you all in the small council chamber and answer any questions you may have for me. There is an important matter I have been meaning to discuss with you all, and today is the day needed for that discussion."

 

Tyrion soon heard the others leaving the room, Bronn's bellowing tones carrying easily to his ears, _'Let's place bets - who do you think will survive this little one-to-one? My money's on Tyrion every time. Did I ever tell you about the time he bashed a man’s head in with a shield?'_ Turning towards the doorway the wedding guests were leaving through, Tyrion noted how Pod was the last to leave, his face openly displaying the concern he felt for his one-time mentor. When the door was securely closed, Tyrion turned back to face the young man before him, as imperturbable as ever.

 

"You had best start explaining - _my King._ "

 

\--------------------------------------

 

"I know you have many questions-" Bran began before being swiftly interrupted.

 

"Many questions? That doesn't even begin to cover matters at hand. I have many questions, that much is true, but only one is important at this present moment. I want to know _why?_ " Tyrion could feel the anger emanating from his body, but after years of courtly life, he was used to keeping such emotions in check. Until he understood all the relevant facts, at least. He couldn't begin to understand what more he needed to ask of Bran until he had an answer to this initial question first. The answer he received could change everything for him, help everything make sense in his mind - or just as likely with the Three Eyed Raven, set everything he believed on fire.

 

"What would you do for your family, Tyrion?" Bran instead asked of him.

 

Tyrion was pulled up short at that, and it took much to keep his initial responses in check to formulate a reply. Sometimes he forgot that he wasn't conversing with an ordinary man, that the Three Eyed Raven felt something like a straightforward conversation was beyond his ability.

 

"You know what I would do. You saw it, just as you see everything. Or so you say. There isn't anything I _wouldn't_ do for my family. Nevertheless, I am in no mood for riddles at present. Get to the point, and reach it quickly, otherwise you'll be short of a Hand." Tyrion ground out between his teeth, leaning against the mossy stone wall so he could keep as much distance as possible between himself and the King.

 

"Contrary to what I would like others to believe, I do remember what it was like - to have such strong love for one's family that you would do anything in your power to protect them. I sent Rickon away because I foolishly believed he would be safer with Osha in the North than with me beyond the Wall. Northmen are loyal, or so I had always been told," Bran locked eyes with Tyrion then, a look almost like sorrow passing his features before it quickly slipped away, replaced with the calm mask Bran had worn ever since returning North, "I may not love as I once did, but I still have a... vested interest in the outcome of certain individuals."

 

Tyrion didn't know how long he could listen to Bran before he erupted, a painful throbbing already emanating from the centre of his skull after the days events. All he really wanted to do right now was shut himself away in his chambers with the remaining bottles of wine he had stored there, drinking until he reached oblivion. Unfortunately for Tyrion, he knew that was unlikely to happen anytime soon. His need to understand outweighed his want for the darkness he had often found at the bottom of a bottle.

 

Deciding it was best to keep his words limited until he understood the matters at hand more fully, he grounded out, "Go on."

 

"I saw a vision of the future, several visions in actuality, with various outcomes. I also saw the events leading up to each of these futures, and as such worked towards ensuring the circumstances that would assure the most favourable outcome for us all. The best way for that to happen was for this day to transpire exactly as it did. I ensured the most favourable version took place, and as a result, the relevant parties will be free to do what needs to be done to secure a stable future for us all."

 

"And that meant I had to marry the love of my brother's life?" Tyrion pressed, curiosity and intrigue starting to overtake the cold anger that had been tightly gripping him until this moment.

 

"Yes." Bran answered, direct and without any apprehension.

 

"What could be so important as to ruin all our lives in this way?" Tyrion demanded, his mind running through several possibilities at once, each more worrisome than the last, but not once guessing the answer he would receive.

 

"Sansa."

 

That brought Tyrion up short. _How could Sansa have anything to do with this? She's safe, she's..._

 

Tyrion was quiet at that, swallowing several times before he felt able to formulate his response, "You mentioned how you relinquished the safety of your brother to those in the North that you trusted, how you had always been told, _'Northmen are loyal'_. Jon Snow used to believe that too, before the Burning of King’s Landing. Before the savagery some Northmen delivered on the innocents within the city." Tyrion felt himself start to go numb, his limbs beginning to shake ever so slightly as images more horrendous than the last began to flash before his eyes. Could it really be as he suspected?

 

"I see you are beginning to understand." Bran acknowledged, nodding his head slightly as he seemed to look beyond Tyrion, a searching look creasing his features.

 

"But I _don't_ understand!" Tyrion exclaimed, the pacing he had begun to do unnoticed to himself, "Sansa has been loyal to those in the North. As their Queen, she will do everything in her power to protect them. Why is that not enough?" Tyrion furiously probed, his fist slamming into the stone wall forcefully on the last word.

 

"There are several explanations I could give," Bran began as he once again focused on Tyrion, his face looking almost thoughtful, "Sansa is a woman, and as such, some Lords will either see her as a worthy prize to win or as an unpredictable ruler. If she marries, some may feel her husband will become the true ruler of the North, and they will have to start anew at cultivating their relationship to the crown. They may even feel slighted, dependent on the House of her potential husband, especially if she chooses someone from a Northern family... However, if she remains unwed, she will die without an heir, and there will be bloodshed anew as the North scrambles for a new ruler upon her passing. Others have forgotten that the Stark's ruled justly and well for generations, and only think of the sadness and bloodshed of late; they think it is time for new blood to rule the North, as it does here in the South."

 

"But those reasons alone would not have enough men turning against her _now._ The issues of marriage and heirs are years away from being a concern. There's more, there has to be more." Tyrion pressed.

 

"There is more," Bran acknowledged. "Some Lords in Sansa's confidence are greatly mistrustful of her pledge to aid House Tarly in re-securing their ancestral home. They feel that despite the North being granted sovereignty, they are still being used a pawn for the South's machinations - that their wishes are secondary compared to the needs of Southern Lords."

 

"Why did Sansa even promise such a thing?" Tyrion was aghast, how could she make such a promise, _why_ would she make it? If anyone was aware of how much the Northerners hated those in the South, it was Sansa.

 

He knew she had to have made the promise before the North separated from the other Six Kingdoms. But even so, Sansa, the voice of reason who had urged patience in sending forces South against Cersei making such a vow so soon after the last battle, Tyrion couldn't make sense of it. What could have caused her to make such a promise so soon after their numbers were decimated once more? _For a girl so smart she does have a habit of sometimes making exceedingly stupid decisions,_ Tyrion couldn't help thinking venomously.

 

He had been sure that she knew _better_ than to trust blindly like Jon Snow. _Or maybe that's what I wanted to believe,_ his mind whispered to him, _because she trusted me. And how did I repay that trust? I whispered her words to Varys at the earliest opportunity._ Sometimes when Tyrion thought of Sansa he forgot that in truth she was still just a young woman, learning her way in a treacherous world. At her very core, she was still a Stark. Sansa was of the North, just like her cousin. And who else was she going to trust if not her fellow Northern Lords?

 

"You're a smart man, Lord Tyrion. I'm sure you can work it out for yourself. What could be worthwhile enough for Sansa to make her do something so rash?" Bran asked monotonously, his eyebrow twitching slightly as he did so.

 

The only reason Sansa would make such a promise would be to trade it for something else, something she felt was vital. But what could she need? That was when it came to him, all the banners he had seen dotting the field when he was released from his imprisonment, sigils fluttering in the slight wind. _Support and allies to free Jon Snow... perhaps even to free me._ His mind whispered the second part quietly, before quickly dismissing the notion. Family always came first to a Stark. Tyrion's freedom would have been nothing more than an added benefit, as she considered him somewhat of a friend, if nothing more. To think Sansa's life could now be in peril for a decision that had helped secure his own measly existence made Tyrion run cold down to his very core.

 

"That still doesn't explain why I needed to wed Lady Brienne... I understand there is a plot against Sansa - although you still need to explain those details more clearly to me - but how does my marriage come into this? If we even are truly married." Tyrion added the last part as an afterthought, but the more he considered it, the more he realised that there could be more to the wedding than what he first realised. _Are we even truly married? Surely it wouldn't be binding, not now..._ the words returned to Tyrion then, and he finally understood what was so strange about them.

 

"Who better to help rescue my sister than a man everyone believes to be dead?" Bran asked, tone aloof, "The crown cannot be seen to be interfering with a sovereign state, without proof of intent sending in forces would be seen as an act of war. No, I needed someone with enough skills in both fighting and survival and a working knowledge of the North to slip past their defences undetected. Ser Jaime is the best man for the job, in that nobody would be likely to notice him considering how many would swear to seeing his decaying corpse displayed on Red Keep's walls."

 

"And if he agrees to run your errand, what might his reward be? The discovery that it was he who you married to the Maid of Tarth, and not his brother?" Tyrion queried, the pieces finally falling into place, "That's what happened today, wasn't it? You didn't marry me to Brienne, you married Jaime to her."

 

"Who I married depends on the circumstance. I married Brienne to Jaime, to you, and to nobody." Bran announced, his tone still monotonous.

 

Tyrion was flabbergasted. He truly believed he had understood then, but instead he was back to feeling like an imbecile. It was a feeling he was getting entirely too used to of late, "How is that so? You married her to the Heir of Casterly Rock. With Jaime proven to still be alive, that title rightly reverts back to him." Tyrion tried to sound sure on that fact, but heard his voice lilt up at the end, turning his statement into more of a question.

 

"Jaime will be whatever I decide he is. I could send him to the Watch this evening, never to be discovered again for the many heinous acts he committed in the past. Or, as you say, I could welcome him back to court as the heir of Casterly Rock. Even if he takes up the task of extricating Sansa from her predicament, he could still end up dying, and as a result would leave Brienne as a mother to a fatherless child. If they wish to accept the marriage upon being informed of it, they can happily do so."

 

"But you think that might not happen?" Tyrion asked.

 

"I no longer feel things as others do, but I doubt Ser Brienne will be pleased to learn of my meddling, or your lie by omission about the fate of Ser Jaime. She may choose to forsake both marriages, and would be entitled to do so considering she wasn't fully informed of who I truly married her to. If she asks me to grant her an annulment, I will not deny her."

 

Even as Bran said the words, Tyrion knew that the likelihood of Brienne asking for such a rare concession as an annulment was an impossibility. She would be furious at the duplicitous nature of the wedding, and Tyrion certainly didn't want to be in her presence when she was informed she had been married to Jaime by proxy and not to Tyrion, but even so, he knew she wouldn't forsake the match. Despite all the anguish and seething anger Brienne surely still felt at Jaime's betrayal, he couldn't ever envision a time where she would be cruel enough to knowingly deny his brother the opportunity to be a father to their child, or where she would willingly turn their child into a bastard.

 

Before Tyrion could wonder any more on this new predicament, Bran’s continued elaborating, "The fact that I married our Lord Commander to the Heir of Casterly Rock whilst being seemingly unaware of who the true heir was can complicate matters or make them very simple. As can the fact I married you, rather than a Septon in the Eyes of the Seven. Not that that would have been advised, even if you were truly marrying Brienne." Bran looked contemplative. "You do realise by the laws of God’s and Men, you and Sansa are still considered married until a Septon officially denounces the marriage, don't you?"

 

Tyrion hadn't realised that in truth, although he supposed he should have considered the possibility long before this moment. When he'd heard that Sansa had married the Bolton bastard, he'd presumed that would leave no doubt in the minds of others that their marriage was unconsummated, and as such, invalidate the match. The fact it was never annulled didn't seem to trouble anyone else, so why should it have troubled him? Surely if Sansa knew the truth, she would only petition to nullify the marriage herself anyway? The details were inconsequential. _But if that was the case, why did my heart skip at the thought of us still being married?_ Unwilling to ponder anymore on this new, unexpected information until he was safely alone in his chambers, Tyrion pushed all thoughts of his marital status aside, intent on weaseling out a few more answers from the elusive young man before him.

 

"I don't agree with your actions," Tyrion ground out before conceding, "but I can understand them. What is going to happen to Sansa, and how are we going to save her?"

 

Tyrion had only begun admitting to himself that his feelings for Sansa Stark ran far deeper than a general wish for her wellbeing after catching sight of her again at Winterfell. It was during their first brief encounter on the battlements that Tyrion finally realised that she held the key to his whole soul. Sansa had been magnificent, and although elements of the girl she had been were there still, he could see just how much the young woman had matured since that time. She was everything he had ever dreamed of in a match, and yet she was still perpetually beyond reach. Women like Sansa were not meant for twisted little imps like him, no matter how much he might wish things could be otherwise.

 

That there wasn't anything he wouldn't be willing to do to ensure her mere happiness, no boundaries he wouldn't push past to ensure her wellbeing, even if there wasn't a place for him in her life was something he'd accepted in the crypts, before the killing began. When faced with the potential of Sansa's death, Tyrion had realised he'd burn the whole of the North to ashes if it only meant she would be safe from harm. He'd failed her once before, when he'd let Littlefinger spirit her away and sell her to such a creature as Ramsay Bolton. He refused to fail her once more. He would find a way to save Sansa, he'd spend the whole Lannister fortune if he had to, send out their armies to force those holding Sansa to free her. He'd trade places with her, give up his pitiful excuse of a life if that's what it took. He'd do anything. He couldn't bear the thought of what might happen to her if he failed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes regarding the chapter:
> 
> Something I disliked in the show was this belief that all northmen are loyal. I disagree. I understand them not wanting to rally behind the Stark's after so many were killed at the Red Wedding, but families turned on them quite easily for personal gain, all things considered. The Bolton's - didn't take much for them to turn once they saw their change to usurp them. Smalljon Umber would rather ally with the Bolton's who betrayed their King than wait and find out why Jon Snow was letting wildlings past the wall. ('Cause the Lord Commander is going to do that without a damn good reason, right?) Even though as far as he knows he's warden to the last Stark heir, yet he easily gave Rickon up to an animal like Ramsay? Hmm... 
> 
> To clarify, I don't think their any less loyal than other families, but this belief that their more loyal than families in the South didn't sit well with me. They might not have as much politics there, but ultimately I felt when it came down to it, their always going to put their own self interests first like all the southern families. Anyway, ultimately this trust in her own people is something I thought would get Sansa into trouble sooner rather than later. She's not as naive as she was, but... she's still quite young and has much to learn.
> 
> As it was, Cersei only ruled through fear, Daenerys wasn't respected as a ruler despite the aid she gave the North in the Battle for Winterfell - do you really see grizzled old men bowing down to a young woman like Sansa? Some might through loyalty, but many would not, especially as she would be putting the South before them in their eyes here, so I wanted to explore that a little bit. Hopefully, I've made a good start.
> 
> Anyway, hopefully you've all enjoyed the chapter and will let me know what you think in comments! Thanks for reading :)


	11. Brienne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to lbswasp! She got this chapter to me really quickly, but due to some difficult stuff happening at home right now I couldn't upload for a few days. So, sorry about that. Here's hoping you all agree it was worth the wait though!
> 
> And here's to odd_izzy - hope you enjoy a line I threw in here for you - it wasn't quite how you imagined it being used, but I figured you would enjoy being in here all the same :)
> 
> Also - thank you to all of you who took the time to comment on the last chapter, especially those of you who have taken the time to comment on other chapters in the past. It really means a lot to me, and I want you all to know I appreciate each and every comment you've left for me on this fic. Reading your comments makes my day feel brighter :) 
> 
> And now... onto the chapter!

 

Brienne almost couldn't differentiate the contrasting feelings that washed through her the moment she saw _him_ standing there, malnourished and filthy yet so beautifully _alive._ Mainly there was shock. Of course there was shock, the last time she'd seen him alive it had been when she'd watch him ride away from Winterfell, away from _her._ She had fixated on that moment each day since that night, no more so than when she lay alone in her cold, overly large bed, _it had never seemed so large before he'd shared it with me,_ examining all the ways she must have fallen short compared to the charms of his beautiful, enigmatic sister. But more than the shock, there was the sweet feeling of relief. In her weakest moments she had prayed to the Seven to bring him back to her, and here he was, just as strong and bewildering as he had been that night when her heart had been broken.

 

Brienne had thought nothing could injure her more than the sight of Jaime riding away from her, away from all they had. She soon learned that she hadn't known what real heartbreak was until she’d arrived in King's Landing, where she soon found herself wishing that that night in Winterfell had truly been the last image she'd had of Jaime. As they'd neared the gates of the Red Keep, her eyes had been drawn to several bloated bodies dangling from the walls, her keen gaze drawn to the figure whose golden hand seemed to glint at her in the sunlight. When she looked upon his face she understood why the Unsullied had left him with the hand and it had nothing to do with respecting his skills as a warrior - his face was unrecognisable, crushed into a bloody pulp, the bones protruding in several places, the skin and soft tissue ripped to shreds where the carrion had feasted on the whole bloody mess. _Her face looks almost perfect in comparison, of course,_ Brienne had thought petulantly. Even in death Cersei had still looked magnificent and beguiling, the cold helping to stave off much of the decay she would have expected to affect the one-time Queen's corpse. If not for the thin trails of blood from her nose and head, one would almost be able to mistake her for sleeping. The birds had not yet turned their attentions to her, too busy gorging themselves on the flesh of her brother, but soon she too would become unrecognisable compared to the woman she had been in life, just another sack of meat hung up upon the walls.

 

And yet here he was before her, whole and healthy. If she just reached out one trembling hand to him she was sure he would be solid flesh beneath her fingers, he wouldn't turn to smoke this time, like he had done so often in her dreams. In fact, Brienne almost found herself doing just that, would have done, perhaps, if not for the words that left his soft lips before her body could act out its wishes,

 

"I suppose congratulations are in order, Lady Lannister," Jaime spoke quietly, a seemingly mocking edge to the words as he spoke her new title. Brienne almost felt like he was talking to himself rather than to her, his gaze guarded, distant...

 

Following his gaze to where her hand was still ensconced in his brothers, Brienne quickly tore it from Tyrion's, not that her new husband minded, for he was already turning to face someone else.

 

Meeting Jaime's eyes without reservation, the words escaped Brienne before she fully recognised them as her own, "How are you even _alive?_ " She heard her voice break on the last word, and a swell of embarrassment rose up inside her at the weakness it betrayed.

 

_Knights are strong in combat, whether it be with words of swords. Are you a strong Knight or a swooning Lady?_ She forced her hands into tight fists, unwilling to let her limbs tremble like a young maiden's any longer. Jaime had always respected her self-control, and it was something she had strived for in the weeks since their separation, but even so, Brienne could recognise that she was out of her depth. She had never yearned for the safe, reliable weight of Oathkeeper more than in this moment, her confidence beginning to drain away from her in the face of this situation she was nowhere near to understanding.

 

"Well, you see..." Jaime paused then, almost as if he was searching for the right words, before announcing, "it would seem reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated, to the relief of all those present, I have no doubt."

 

And then he made his biggest mistake. He _smiled_ at her. That golden smile she both loved and loathed, for it reminded her not only of nights spent entwined in his embrace, but of other nights, from earlier in their relationship, where that smile would be followed by words that had cut her deeper than any sword wound. She had thought she knew all his tricks of cruelty then, that there was nothing Jaime could do that could hurt her compared to those early days before they had begun to understand one another. Brienne knew better now, would never forget when he'd left her bereft and broken in the frozen grounds of Winterfell to face the condemnation and disgust of all those present in the castle, alone.

 

"You've been alive all this time, and yet you stayed away. Why Jaime? How could you?" Brienne wouldn't beg him for an answer, she wouldn't, but she had to ask the question, had to try and understand, somehow.

 

Cruel enough he left her for Cersei, but had she truly been nothing more than a bedwarmer to him, her purpose served and as such, discarded without a second thought the moment she was out of his sight? Is that why he didn't return, didn't give her the peace of knowing he was alive? Is that why he'd let her spend every night since word of his death believing that she'd thoroughally failed him, because all they had shared truly meant nothing to him after all?

 

"I thought it would be easier that way. That you could move on with your life, without me tarnishing your future anymore than I already had." Jaime answered morosely, his eyes wary as he looked upon Brienne.

 

Brienne could tell there was more to Jaime's words, that he was leaving something important unsaid. But she was not in the mood to play games, choosing to focus on her anger rather than her sorrow. Anger was the safer emotion at present. If she succumbed to her sadness, she didn't know what may happen. The last thing anyone present wanted was a weeping Lord Commander.

 

"Easier for you. That was my choice to make, Jaime, and you took that from me." Brienne admonished coldly, suddenly realising how loud her voice had become.

 

Feeling her cheeks colouring with fury and the knowledge that their conversation had gathered the attention of almost all others in the room, Brienne couldn't bear to look upon the faces of those present. Didn't want to see the pity there, or worse, _laughter._ Her stomach began churning unbearably as other ramifications of this much too public conversation occurred to Brienne, swiftly turning her cheeks from a deeply stained red to a curdled milk white. _Pod and Daven are here. How can they ever respect me now, follow my orders, knowing what they do about me? About my naivety? If they tell the others..._

 

"Brienne, you don't understand. I was doing it for you, for your wellbeing..."

 

She couldn't hold it in anymore, her resentment finally flooding out of her in the only way she felt comfortable to express it. Before her mind understood the actions of her body, Brienne saw her fist flying towards that face that had tormented her nights and distracted her days, delivering a swift, firm punch to that mouth she knew so intimately.

 

The fact that Brienne had held back on her punch was something that wasn't lost on either herself or Jaime. He'd seen what damage she could cause without a weapon. If she'd truly wished to hurt him, he wouldn't still be standing before her with eyes that pleaded for absolution.

 

"Consider that a sign of how much I appreciated you taking care of my _wellbeing,_ " Brienne spat before turning to leave the room. Her gaze was focused only on the door that would grant her freedom from this situation, even as she acknowledged it couldn't free her from all the conflicting emotions that had arose within her upon sight of _him._

 

Brienne refused to turn around, to look at him one last time before making her escape, refusing to grant Jaime Lannister anymore power over her person. She was proud of the fact that her legs carried her steadily, and her hands were no longer trembling, although her fist burned where it had made contact with his face, and she couldn't help fretting to herself over the power behind her punch.

 

Brienne wasn't always best at judging the strength behind her blows when her emotions were enflamed like they currently were, _I hope I didn't knock any of his teeth loose._ When she'd found herself yearning to reach out and touch him, that hadn't precisely been what she'd had in mind. Quickening her pace to leave before the idea to detain her occurred to Jaime, Brienne didn't run, exactly, but if her departure was rushed, well... nobody could blame her for her expeditious pace, not now.

 

It wasn't every day that the dead returned to life in Westeros.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Brienne didn't know how she made it to her chambers without retching, but the moment she was through the door she reached for the chamber pot, acid stinging her throat and causing her eyes to water as she reached the ornate bowl to heave into it just in time. Wiping her clammy brow with the back of her hand, Brienne had never been more glad for the nausea that woke her each morning than she was in this moment. Due to that recent habit, Brienne hadn't eaten much today - unsure her stomach could handle the pressure of food on a day where her nerves were already frayed. Luckily, this meant she avoided the further embarrassment of not only punching Jaime Lannister, but also vomiting upon him, as she would have surely done if today had been any other day and she'd actually eaten something.

 

_Jaime Lannister,_ Brienne's mind brought forth her new-last image of him, the blood gushing forth from the split lip she'd gifted him, and the glorious green eyes that spoke to her of unknown sorrows, _you glorious, infuriating bastard. Just when I believe I know where I stand in this world, what my future will be, you choose now to make your reappearance and tear all I know asunder._ She couldn't decide what she wanted more - to never see him again, to hold him tightly and never let him leave her side, or to give him a thorough thrashing.

 

Brienne didn't know how long she stood there contemplating each scenario, but eventually she became aware of the thunderous, incessant banging at her chambers. As her gaze shifted towards the door her heart began battering erratically inside her chest as the obvious thought sprang to her mind. _Surely it isn't...?_

 

"Brienne!" Jaime cried, "Let me in, Brienne. We need to talk properly - just the two of us," She could hear movement outside the door, a sound like something rubbing against the wood, followed by a thudding noise, "I won't leave until you speak with me, wench. You can be pigheaded on occasion, but so can I. I stood vigil for my father, seven full days and nights beside his fetid, rotting corpse. Did I tell you that? If I can withstand that, I can certainly withstand you. You'll have to leave your chambers eventually."

 

Brienne found her mind went blank as she tried to decide what to do. The, _'and when you do...'_ in Jaime's words was well implied, of course. He wouldn't be disappearing anytime soon, if he was to be believed, and he would ultimately get his wish. _He wouldn't really remain outside my door until I let him enter my chambers though... would he?_ Even as Brienne thought the words she knew she was being ridiculous. Of course he would - this was Jaime Lannister after all. If anyone was used to getting their own way, it was him. He'd wait as long as it took, Brienne's obvious wishes for space and privacy be damned.

 

She was almost intent on waiting him out, seeing if Jaime was truly as good as his word when she heard it, and found herself soundlessly walking towards her door in response to the plea.

 

"Please, Brienne. Just... let me in. I know I don't deserve it, but let me explain, if I can. If you wish for me to leave after we speak, I'll respect your decision. But I can't leave things like this between us, Brienne, not with so much still unsaid." Every time Jaime said her name it was like it was something precious, while the beseeching tone was clear to Brienne's ears.

 

Opening the door abruptly, a small, guilty measure of pleasure went through her as she watched Jaime tumble in through the doorway, his body smacking the floor with a hard _thwack._ Clearly, he had been seated against the door, half turned to face it. His hand was still raised from where he had had it held against the solid wood.

 

"Say what you must, Jaime, and then if you truly care as you’d have me believe, you’ll leave me alone." Brienne was glad to note her voice didn't quaver like before. Stepping aside, she allowed the man who had broken her heart admittance into her rooms, each of them understanding that she was doing more than just granting him entry to her chambers in the process.

 

Shutting the door securely behind him, Jaime stood there, merely gazing at Brienne with a warm, soft look on his face, as if he couldn't stop drinking in the sight of her like a man long denied. It made Brienne feel uneasy, her skin pricking where she felt his gaze rove upon her body. That look reminded her far too much of the days and nights following their first evening together, after the revelation that Jaime had wanted her, almost as much as she had wanted him since their conversation in the baths at Harrenhal, when she'd first seen the true Jaime. She had thought she could trust that look, back at Winterfell.

 

She had been a fool then, imagining Jaime as her white Knight and herself the virtuous maiden with her one true love. She couldn't afford to forget the past, couldn't afford to be foolish once more... _you're still a fool now, letting him in like this. You know you could never say no to Jaime, not since that night he protected you from the rapists, only to lose his hand in the process. You've been a fool where Jaime Lannister is concerned long before that night together in Winterfell._ Before she could berate herself anymore Brienne found her thoughts were interrupted by the focus of them.

 

"You look beautiful," Jaime said softly, still raking his eyes over her form.

 

Suddenly Brienne couldn't help thinking Jaime's silence and glances were better than his words. Looking anywhere but at him, she replied scornfully, "I look ridiculous," pausing slightly to turn away from him, Brienne continued cuttingly, "I believe the phrase, 'can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear', and worse, has been used quite often to describe me of late." She soon began pulling at the beads in her hair, uncomfortable with the foreign feeling of ornamentation. _What I wouldn't do to be wearing my armour for this conversation._

 

"Don't speak that way about yourself," Jaime demanded. "Why would you say such a thing? It isn't like you to care what others think of your appearance. Tell me who said that and I'll-"

 

Refusing to answer, Brienne cut in before Jaime could rush to offer to defend her honour once more, like they were the Brienne and Jaime of _before._ Unable to bear hearing it, she asked him, "Was it all a jape, Jaime? Was our time together just some mindless pleasure to fill your evenings while you recovered, until you could return to Cersei?"

 

"What we shared was never a joke, and meant far more to me than just some mindless pleasure," Jaime replied firmly.

 

"Who else knew?" Brienne demanded.

 

"Who else knew what?" Jaime asked, his face suddenly unreadable. It reminded her of the Jaime she had first met, trapped in the cage in Robb's camp. Brienne wasn't sure she was entirely comfortable with the sudden reminder.

 

"Knew that you were alive," Brienne pushed. She wouldn't be dissuaded, she had to know for her own peace of mind, "I need to know who else was involved, Jaime... _please,_ " Brienne finished, her voice only shaking slightly on the last word.

 

He looked uneasy at that, she noted, and suddenly seemed unwilling to meet her gaze. Coughing slightly, when Jaime looked to her again he almost looked apologetic, and Brienne suddenly knew this answer would not be an easy one to hear.

 

"Tyrion knew," Jaime began. "If not for Tyrion, I probably wouldn't be alive today. He enlisted Davos into his plan to see me safely outside the city, and..." Pausing slightly, Jaime looked away as he admitted: "Tarly knows I'm alive, as does his family. He treated my wounds before riding out for King's Landing."

  
  
As Jaime spoke, Brienne had slowly become aware of a roaring in her ears, much like the waves of Tarth, growing louder and more insistent the more people Jaime named who had known the truth yet failed to inform her of it. Brienne began the process of digesting Jaime's words, reexamining every moment with each of those individuals in the weeks following Jaime's "demise" with a new, harsh outlook.

 

"All this time, they must have been laughing at me..." she whispered to herself as a sickness completely unrelated to the pregnancy almost overtook her.

 

She began eyeing the chamber pot again as the roiling in her belly nearly became too much to overcome, before forcing her body to prevail it. _I refuse to retch in his presence. Knights can handle anything, even news like this._

 

"Nobody was laughing, Brienne," Jaime promised, stepping forward slightly with his hand outstretched as if to offer her comfort.

 

Shaking her head almost imperceptibly, Brienne replied coldly, "If I didn't know better I would have thought this was a cruel joke of your brother’s. To think, he _thanked_ me for the kind words I wrote about you in the White Book, all the while knowing you were still alive somewhere." The bitter tones of betrayal were easy to hear in Brienne's tone as she continued, arms wrapping themselves around her middle defensively. "Why is it you've returned now, anyway? Am I a consolation prize to you, Jaime?"

 

"You were never a prize, Brienne. You are worth far more than something that can be won... my feelings for you were always true."

 

"But your feelings for Cersei were evidently stronger." Brienne knew she was being cruel, but in this moment she couldn't help herself, her options limited as they were. If she didn't maintain her anger, who knew what other emotion might rise to the surface? Still, Brienne couldn't help sadly thinking, _if only you'd come back sooner... If only you'd returned before I said my vows to your brother. How can things ever be made right with all that there is between us, and that new burden now upon us also_?

 

"It's not like that," Jaime began, biting his bloody lip before quickly releasing it with a wince of pain. She felt a stab of guilt at the sight. When he looked at her, there was again fire in his eyes as he pledged: "It's not a case of either you or Cersei. Things are more complicated than that, Brienne."

 

"What is it like then, Jaime? Tell me." Brienne demanded. Even as she said the words, she knew she wasn't ready to hear the truth of them. May never truly be ready to hear what had made him ride away from her and all they'd shared.

 

"It wasn't a choice like you seem to think. It wasn't a case of me loving Cersei more, or loving you less. You taught me the meaning of duty and honour, Brienne. I had to go, I couldn't leave Cersei alone like that, despite all she had done. She was my responsibility - her sins had always been my own..." Jaime trailed off then, gaze clearly tormenting him with painful thoughts of the past.

 

Brienne cut in before Jaime could elaborate. "No more, Jaime. I-I can't..."

 

"Brienne..." Jaime moved forwards once again, his left hand slightly shaking as it made to draw her into his embrace.

 

She couldn't bear it. Flinching away from him, Brienne moved closer to her window, her hands gripping the edge of her desk as she digested all that had been said between them thus far. She didn't anticipate that this was not the end of their conversation.

 

"There is more that we have to discuss," he said grimly, moving closer again, but remaining just outside of her reach.

 

Turning to face him, Brienne quickly asked, "What more could there be?"

 

"This," Jaime stated joylessly, as he pulled a crumpled piece of paper out from a hidden drawbag attached to the waistband of his breeches.

 

She almost didn't recognise it, dirty and folded as it was. Obviously, it was something he had worried between his fingers many times. Brienne couldn't help her curiosity, _what could it be?_ Taking a closer look, she soon spotted the writing upon it, her mind recognising her own hand immediately. She felt herself go from hot to cold as she turned once more to her writing desk, only to finally noticed what she had failed to recognise before - when she went to bed, the desk had had her letter upon it. All day, her desk had been empty. _How did he get hold of it?_

 

"I-Is it... is it true?" Jaime asked, his voice shaky and breaking partway through the sentence.

 

Brienne didn't need to ask what he was enquiring about, wouldn't make him agonise over her response needlessly. "Of course it is. I wouldn't have written it otherwise."

 

"Would you have told me, Brienne?" He asked, his voice quiet, distant.

 

"That was my way of telling you, considering I was labouring under the misapprehension that you were dead." Brienne knew she was being short with him, her unease making her snippier than she would like. _He was never meant to see it. So many words were meant to go unread, only for my eyes and those of the Seven... next time, I'll make sure to burn any correspondence meant for myself only._

 

"Did you mean what you said in your letter, about telling them about me when the time was right?" He asked, his eyes noticeably glassy.

 

"I did." She answered around the lump that had been forming in her throat, resisting the urge to cough around it.

 

They were silent for some time then, each digesting the words of the other. Almost collapsing into the chair, Brienne braced her arms on her thighs, her head between her hands as she realised just how complicated her life would soon become. It was one thing imagining raising her child to know their father, but what would she do now that their father was actually here? How would her child ever understand that the man she now called husband was their uncle, while their true father was her brother in law?

 

Almost like he was reading her thoughts, Jaime quietly wondered, "What will happen now? Will you still tell them the truth, as you stated in your letter, or will I be forced into the role of 'uncle' Jaime for my own child once again?" He had moved while Brienne had looked away, now leaning heavily against her desk himself. _He looks like he can barely stand, like a strong wind would carry him away from me..._

 

Brienne was trying to formulate her reply when it came, a loud, singular knock upon her door. Rising slowly, her body suddenly feeling drained like after a battle, Brienne wordlessly passed where Jaime stood. As she did so, her arm gently brushed against his, tingling all the way to the door where it had made contact with him. Reaching her door, Brienne pulled it open slightly, only to be surprised by the face she saw looking back at her.

 

"Why have you come, Pod?" She wondered, voice scratchy like she had been crying.

 

"I'm sorry to disturb you, m'lady - _Brienne,_ " he corrected while looking into her face. His discomfort was obvious in his demeanor as Pod continued, "but your presence is required, as is Ser Jaime's. The King wishes to speak with us, and he says it cannot wait any longer."

 

"I understand," Brienne replied, coughing to clear her voice before continuing. "Tell him we will be there momentarily."

 

Closing the door behind her, Brienne couldn't help feeling a slight swell of relief at the summons. And yet she knew Jaime's question would haunt her until she could finally give him a true response. Her only hope was that whatever this meeting was for, it would help her find an answer they could both live with.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! I'll try my best to get the next chapter to you all ASAP. It should be quite an interesting one! 
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this chapter, so I hope you all enjoyed reading it too :) can't quite believe we have hit over 75,000 words! When I started writing this story I figured it would be short, maybe 50,000 words at most, and look where we are now. I have an outline for the story as a whole, but to say its grown is a slight understatement. But if anything that just makes writing this all the more exciting :)


	12. Brienne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta has stated she's unfortunately going to be too busy to carry on beta'ing this work, therefore any mistakes that have slipped past are entirely my own from now on.
> 
> First things first- I am extremely sorry for the long time between updates, but... October has been one of the worst months of my life up to date (I'm going to explain a bit about what's been happening in case it continues to affect my ability to update in the near future. If you don't wanna know feel free to scroll past to get to the chapter below - its just over 6000 words, so hopefully makes up for the lack of updates lately)
> 
> So...
> 
> Not long after the last update things with my neighbour escalated in an extreme way (some of you may remember we were having extremely bad noise problems with him) to the point he had begun harassing my disabled mother and went to punch me in the face because she wouldn't lend him money to buy weed. Considering a week and a bit before that he threatened his ex wife and two adult kids with a machete (among other things) for "disrespecting" him, I haven't exactly been in the best way with having to live next door to someone like that.
> 
> I started to really struggle with writing with all that going on.
> 
> I had starting to get back into the swing of things when my grandma, ( she's in her eighties) was hospitalised unexpectedly with pneumonia. She's out of hospital now but there are other problems related to that going on now with her too which are on my mind a lot at the moment. I'm trying to not think of the worst but its hard.
> 
> Then "someone" (although I'm sure you can guess who I reckon it was) poured paraffin through our letterbox and tried to burn our house down in the middle of the night. Can't prove it was him as they wore gloves, so no fingerprints or dna. We are currently struggling to get rehomed as nobody seems willing to do more than the bear minimum, despite several different services and people getting involved to try and help us (so far unsuccessfully, but hopefully that'll change soon and we can finally get away from the nightmare next door). 
> 
> I'm not telling you all this to make excuses or to gain sympathy etc, I just wanted you guys to understand my current situation in case something else happens, like we finally get moved or I don't have much time to write if something else happens with my grandma. I'm not giving up/abandoning the story, but it might take me a while longer than planned to get it written. I'm trying to do a little bit each day now, and already have a good amount of the next chapter written.
> 
> I've completely plotted out the next several chapters too, so that's better than nothing, right?
> 
> I hope you guys will stick with me and my story. If the next chapter isn't as good as the previous ones I apologise, but I figured I was psyching myself out with it and it would be better to get it posted before going through ANOTHER rewrite. Any of you writers here feel that way when you don't write/update in a while? I think its finally in a good place, so I hope you'll all enjoy it and let me know your opinions in the comments.
> 
> Thanks for your understanding.

 

Taking the fastest route to where the small council meetings were held, (which would also have the added benefit of keeping them far away from any potentially prying eyes of wandering wedding guests) Brienne was keenly aware of Jaime's presence beside her, her senses focused intently on him like a bee upon nectar. Her hearing was finely attuned to his every inhale and exhale, her eyes remained fixated on the shadow his body threw off - she couldn't quite bear to look fully upon the man himself, but neither could she tear her gaze away from the shape of him on the stone flooring so close beside her own shade. Meanwhile her sense of smell easily recognised the mingling scents of his stale sweat and the horse he had surely ridden here upon. Yet underneath that was a smell all his own, indescribable but so inherently Jaime that Brienne knew she would never forget it, not even if she lived to see ninety namedays. 

 

She hadn't realised how much she'd failed to recall about him until this moment, how many small details she had taken for granted - before. She was still vexed with Jaime of course, furious in truth, but even so Brienne was able to admit to herself that despite the vicious, burning emotions his betrayal inspired within her, there was also sweet relief there that she had this opportunity to feel irate with Jaime. She'd denied herself such feelings when she'd thought him endlessly lost to her, at peace with the Seven she'd hoped, if the Gods were willing.

 

He hadn't dared speak with her or attempted to reach out to Brienne as they hastened towards their destination in the half light of the sconces currently burning low along their route. Brienne knew that her rejection of Jaime must be as fresh in his mind as it was in her own, and a part of her felt a small modicum of guilt at the action before she quickly reminded herself why distancing herself from Jaime Lannister continued to be a valid response to his presence. _He wouldn't have returned now if not for my marriage to Tyrion,_ a cruel voice in Brienne's mind hissed at her, _if Cersei had lived, you never would have seen him again, never would have known what fate befell him..._

 

And yet, even with those words plaguing her and darkening her already sombre mood, Brienne couldn't stop herself from recognising Jaime's nearness to her. Neither could she halt her body's acute awareness of his close proximity, even after she had quickened her pace in a small attempt to place distance between them. She also couldn't ignore the way Jaime's warm breath tickled the soft hairs that curled on her neck each time he turned to gaze upon her when she surmised he believed her to be distracted. If she moved ever so slightly to the left, her arm would easily be able to brush gently against his...

 

Looking down now at that arm, Brienne was brought up short by the sight of his bare stump where Jaime's sword hand had once been. It was such a rare occurrence to see it uncovered since they'd journeyed together to King's Landing all those years ago - she'd almost forgotten how he looked without the false hand in place. Even in the privacy of her chambers Jaime preferred to keep his golden hand attached to himself, stating it was easier to keep it on then to waste time having to re-strap it each morning. Brienne had always sensed that that was nothing more than a half truth, that despite the great strides Jaime had taken in accepting himself since losing his hand, there was some insecurity there regarding it still. 

 

Seeing that bare stump encouraged Brienne's mind to wander into past recollections, thoughts she had tried to bury since she'd first returned South with Sansa and her army. It reminded her of the man Jaime had been at Harrenhal, of the vulnerability he had freely trusted her to see then. She had only ever seen him so unguarded once since that time, during their first night together in her secluded quarters when his eyes had shined with something akin to love... or so she had thought at that time. _Likely it was nothing more than a trick of the firelight,_ the voice from earlier suggested cuttingly. 

 

During the many dark nights she had spent alone since Jaime had left Winterfell, Brienne couldn't help thinking that they never would have become so close if not for the removal of that hand. That moment changed everything, for her as well as him. Not only had it made Jaime reevaluate his own thoughts and values, it had forced Brienne to reconsider the man she had once called her prisoner too. Could she ever have grown to call the arrogant, prideful man he had been before the incident a friend? Would they ever have been able to reach a point where something akin to friendship would have been possible? 

 

_Would he even have returned to save me from that bear if they hadn't taken away his hand? Or would he have gladly left me to my fate, his mind too full of thoughts of Cersei to concern himself with a homely woman who foolishly thought herself a valiant Knight like the ones from songs?_ Shaking her head slightly, Brienne knew she was being disingenuous regarding Jaime. She had known him better than that, even then. Jaime had always had a great propensity for goodness. Until that moment it had merely been dormant, battered down by the horrors he had been privy to yet unable to speak of, and by the questionable acts he himself had come to commit over time. It had not been necessity that had him intervening to save her from that bear, or from the fate that had nearly befallen her earlier on in their travels. _He still had his hand when he saved you from being raped, a kinder voice reminded her. If he had not acted to save you from the horror they had planned that night he may never have lost it to begin with._

 

Before she could get too wrapped up in thoughts that only succeeded in making her heart ache intolerably, Brienne finally turned the last corner, the tall doors to the council chambers suddenly coming into view before her. Taking long strides towards them, she waited a few moments for Jaime to reach her side before making to enter the room, _out of politeness,_ she told herself. In truth, she needed the precious few seconds alone to steady her for whatever was to come once she entered the spacious chamber. Brienne knew that whatever words were about to be exchanged inside that chamber were unlikely to contain anything pleasant. Hand lightly grasping the handle to the door, she was halted by the words her one time lover chose that moment to softly murmur to her.

 

"When this meeting concludes, may I return with you to your chambers so we can finish our earlier conversation? If you truly wish for privacy, I will of course grant you it, but..." Jaime's low tones contained only a hint of pleading within them before he quietly trailed off, seemingly at a loss for words in the face of her expression. His eyes were trained intently on her face as if looking for an indicator as to whether or not his presence would be welcomed, or merely tolerated at this moment in time.

 

Conflicting emotions arose within Brienne, and to quickly halt them she replied with the first thought that came to mind. "When have you ever concerned yourself with the needs of others before now?" She knew her tone was harsh, her words uncharitable, but unwilling to see the expression those words had produced Brienne instead opted to begin entering the chamber, effectively ending their conversation before he could push the matter further.

 

But despite the abrupt end to their exchange, Brienne's response was not a refusal of Jaime's request, something she knew they were both equally aware of as her face flamed in shame at her inability to say no to Jaime, even now, after everything.

 

Upon entering, she couldn't help noting how the steady hum of discussion seemed to die upon the sight of her and Jaime together in the doorway. Her eyes promptly took in the faces of those present, resentment humming in her blood at the sight of Davos and Sam in halted conversation where they sat beside one another. Bronn was positioned slightly apart from them, his feet upon the long table where he continued to lounge, disinterested in whatever discussion her presence had disturbed. His hand was resting almost absent mindedly where Brienne was sure he kept a small, sharpened knife concealed at his waist. Meanwhile Bran was situated at the head of the table as he always was, and Brienne gave a slight nod of acknowledgment to Pod who stood to attention just behind the young King, prepared for action should their leige have need of him. She couldn't meet his eyes as she did so, however. She didn't want to see the pity that was sure to greet her there.

 

Ignoring the presence of Jaime just behind her as best she could, Brienne gave a stilted bow to the King as custom dictated she should. Despite the numerous times she had greeted the young ruler since her advancement to Lord Commander she still felt uneasy at the action, the weight of his eyes upon her heavy and probing each time he turned that gaze upon her person. Straightening her spine, Brienne walked steadily around the ornate table to take the plush, wine coloured seat that had already been designated for her in small council meetings. 

 

She kept her gaze reserved as she did so, her face betraying nothing of her thoughts despite the eyes she felt still trained upon her person. Some of them were more obvious in their assessment of her than others, Sam's look of concern clear on his features as his eyes followed her movements. She knew her face must be as luridly pink as overripe raspberries, well aware of the heat she could feel emanating from it, but still she kept her face clear. It was a trick that had proved beneficial to her many times before now, something she had needed to cultivate in Renly's camp, surrounded by hostile soldiers as she had been. She'd found herself falling back on that behaviour often since that time and was suddenly thankful for the treatment she had received all those years ago, for it afforded her her privacy of thoughts in the moments she found she most needed it.

 

"I hate to say this, Lannister, but I've seen corpses more fetching than you at present. But I suppose since many of us thought you were a corpse we can forgive your less than fresh appearance." Bronn spoke contemplatively, an easy smirk on his face as he eyed Jaime where he remained stood, tall and proud before everyone in the well-lit room. 

 

"I daresay you're likely the one who made them corpses to begin with," Jaime replied jovially. "I assume from your presence here that Tyrion made good on his promise to establish you as Lord of Highgarden?" He concluded, tone light even as his eyes danced dangerously.

 

"Aye, that he did. I'm Master of Coin now too. Who would have thought a sellsword like me could rise to be so high and mighty? Seems I'll be having to get myself a wife like your brother did here sometime in the near future," Bronn stated blithely. However while his words may have seemed careless to others, Brienne could plainly see Bronn's intent was to purposefully vex Jaime, his eyes keen upon Jaime's face as he spoke his words, clearly waiting avidly for his reaction.

 

Brienne also noted the tightness around Jaime's eyes, the way the wrinkles there deepened at the blithe words the man spoke, the way his hand made to clench into a loose fist while Bronn just stared back easily at him, his smile ever widening as he too observed Jaime's reactions. His mouth was just opening to emit some form of cutting reply she was sure, but before any barbs could begin to be exchanged between the pair they found themselves interrupted by the quiet yet authorative words of Bran Stark. 

 

"Take a seat, Ser Jaime. Present conversations can be delayed until another time, for we all have much to discuss and not much time to do it in." Bran spoke easily, his eyes focused on Jaime as he did so, but nevertheless the gravity in his tone was recognisable to each person in the room.

 

There was intense silence for several moments as everyone's gazes landed on the elder Lannister, clearly considering whether the man before them would submit easily to their King's will. After another minute or so of scrutinising one another, Jaime broke his locked gaze with the younger man by following in Brienne's path as he too made his way around the long table. As he sauntered towards her end of the table Brienne was able to take in the unnatural straightness of his spine, the way Jaime seemed to wince slightly before lowering himself into a velvet covered seat - the one directly across from her own. It was as he settled and laid those familiar, forest green eyes upon her that it abruptly occurred to Brienne that one of their number was still currently absent.

 

A hot, prickling flush of irritation came upon her as she thought of him, her _husband._ Brienne found herself opening her mouth to ask those present why Tyrion felt it prudent to be absent for such a pressing meeting when an insistent tapping noise from behind her caught her attention. Turning slightly in the dainty, too small chair, Brienne saw his figure half hidden in shadow, his hand compulsively tapping against the coarse stone of the wall beside the casement he was leaned up against.

 

The longer she observed him the more she felt concern start to overtake the bitterness she currently felt at his betrayal. She had gotten to know Tyrion considerably well since her promotion to Lord Commander - at least, she could note his moods quite accurately at any rate. And if the tenseness in his shoulders and the way his hands trembled ever so slightly were any indicators, then something was greatly affecting him indeed to cause such a reaction in a man with so many years of practice and cultivated skill in hiding their emotions from others.

 

"I believe it was your wish for me to be present at this gathering. Tell me, Lord Stark, what might you need from a maimed lion such as myself? You already have a more than capable array of Kingsguard, even if they are a little heavy handed and overzealous at times." Jaime spoke boldly, slouching in his chair as he did so almost like he was without a care. But even so, Brienne noticed the way his hand seemed to linger over his side, as if soothing some unknown hurt there.

 

While to all others present he might look indifferent, Brienne could easily see through the act he was presenting for them. Jaime was unsettled, and the thought made her own apprehension at the situation ratchet up, her uneasiness reaching almost intolerable levels. As she focused on the way he seemed to be holding his side, Jaime's comment about heavy handed Kingsguard repeated in her mind, and she knew she would soon be having a word with her fellow Kingsguard. There was a story there, and she doubted she would approve once she had all the facts. But first she needed to ask Jaime about what had transpired between himself and her brothers, although she was sure she could make an accurate conjecture should he be reticent about divulging the full truth to her.

 

"Sansa has been kidnapped," the words came from behind her, and turning to look upon where she knew Tyrion to be standing, Brienne saw he had moved to face them all, edging towards his seat before continuing. "Or will have been by the time we'd be able to send out any assistance to her. I don't think I need to explain the political implications if the crown becomes involved in the goings on of another Kingdom without invitation." Tyrion spoke gravely, his eyes focusing on each of them in turn as he ensured they understood the meaning behind the words he left unsaid, the potential for war enough to make even Bronn sit up straight and pay full attention to the matter at hand.

 

All was silent for a moment before chaos began erupting as several questions were promptly asked in tandem.

 

"Who took Lady Stark?" Sam wondered in surprise, face paling.

 

"What do you need from us to ensure her safe return?" Davos questioned as he turned to first face Tyrion, and then Bran.

 

"The King is her brother - surely that warrants our involvement?" Bronn conjectured calmly as he caressed the side where Brienne was sure his knife resided.

 

"How can we be sure this information is accurate?" Jaime demanded, voice raised to be heard above the growing cacophony.

 

"Surely we aren't going to sit here and do nothing?" Brienne pressed, outrage apparent even to her own ears as she imagined Sansa alone, defenseless and surrounded once more by enemies who wished her harm. _Another vow broken. Oh, Sansa, how I've failed you..._

 

Raising his hand, silence soon settled in the chamber as Bran began to explain, "I will need something from each of you, but more from some than others," settling his gaze on Jaime again, Bran resumed. "The best method for ensuring my sisters safe return is the one they would least expect. And who better to go North and rescue Sansa than a dead man?"

 

Brienne felt a coldness seeping into her belly that reminded her of the feel of Tarth's bitter waters in winter as the words the King had spoken repeated themselves over and over in her head. A panic began to ensue inside her yet her facade remained composed as several thoughts of her own began vying for dominance. _He can't go, he_ can't. _He's only just returned to us. He's injured, how is he meant to save her in such a condition? He barely even knows the North. If he goes alone, they will both surely be lost to us! Oh Mother, don't let him leave me again so soon..._

 

"So that's your _great_ plan, to send me on this suicide mission," Jaime barked out a short laugh, face contemplative before a cold smile began to emerge across his face as he clearly considered Bran's suggestion. "I admit, it wasn't a plan I would have thought a Stark capable of. To send an army North would be to invite war, something nobody here would sanction, sister of yours or not. But if you only send one man and he's ultimately captured? Well, its easier for you to deny, I grant you that, so long as the man doesn't talk. But who to send? Anyone with skills enough to have a hope of saving Lady Stark and resolve enough to withstand torture would be someone who would not go easily unnoticed. But me? I'm already dead as far as most people are aware as you stated, and most Northerners would still give their right hand at the chance to kill the famed Kingslayer if granted the chance. Whose going to believe them if they said Jaime Lannister had returned from the grave to save Sansa Stark anyway? No, this wouldn't be likely to come back onto you at all, would it, Lord Stark? If I didn't know better, I'd think someone else's hand beside your own was involved in crafting this plan." While Jaime's words were calm, his face betrayed nothing of his true thoughts as he turned to take in where his clearly agitated brother was now sitting, shoulders hunched and gaze trained resolutely upon the smooth wood of the table before him.

 

"I wouldn't force you to undertake this duty against your will," Bran stated calmly. "If you accept this mission and are successful in freeing Sansa, the crown would owe you a great debt. You could return, crimes wiped clean, as Lord of Casterly Rock once more. Or if you wished it you could receive a different reward entirely. The price would be yours to name," Bran assured, his face still holding an expression that was completely unreadable to Brienne as he continued to observe Jaime.

 

"But first I must succeed in achieving the impossible," Jaime responded to the offer easily, yet his gaze still focused on Brienne for a moment, almost as if assessing her reaction before turning his full attention back towards Bran. "Now, how could I refuse such a tempting challenge as that? I need time to gather supplies, but I'll ensure I leave before dawn," Jaime finished quietly, voice unusually subdued as he looked down at where his hand lay upon the table.

 

"You can't," Brienne began without thinking. "Not alone."

 

"There isn't anyone else-" Jaime began before being interrupted.

 

"There is," Brienne replied insistently. "I'll go with you."

 

There could have been a whole troupe of singers in the chamber for all the attention Brienne would have given them, her eyes too keenly focused on the surprised man sat across from her. She almost missed the gazes that were being exchanged among the others, would have done if not for Jaime pulling her attention to them. It didn't escape her that nobody in the chamber objected to her proposal, something Brienne could tell was vexing Jaime greatly.

 

"Surely you cannot be serious?" Jaime admonished. "You cannot come with me, not with everything..." At this he faltered, merely choosing to stare intently at her, his eyes saying what his words could not in their current company.

 

"Men have been saying what I can and cannot do for years, Jaime," Brienne began, an edge to her tone as she stared back into Jaime's face defiantly. "I know my own capabilities and weaknesses. More importantly, I know how to be safe. I'm less likely to take risks compared to some of the other people in this room." 

 

"Even so, surely if you thought this through you would see just how unwise this decision is..." Jaime insisted, tone beseeching as he tried to sway Brienne from her decision.

 

"I made a vow to protect her, Jaime, surely you can understand that? Sansa is one of the few people in my life who hasn't treated me as someone beneath her or lied openly to me. You cannot expect me to abandon her now," Brienne stated fiercely, her gaze piercing Jaime, Davos, Sam and lastly Tyrion in turn before continuing. "Disregarding that fact, the truth of the matter is that you don't know the North, not like I do. If we were to send you to save Sansa alone you'd be nothing more than a liability. Whereas between us we surely stand a higher chance of success and could help avoid the potential war this kidnapping surely indicates is to come if we don't succeed in freeing Sansa from her captors."

 

"How would your absence be explained? You're the Lord Commander now, people will notice if you suddenly fail to attend your duties, wench. You're not a woman who naturally fades into the background," Jaime quietly pointed out.

 

"My father's health has been somewhat poor of late, and his condition is only likely to continue declining," Brienne admitted, her voice slightly shaky as she thought of her father, frail and diminishing in his sick bed. "It wouldn't be unexpected for me to go to him now, especially being his only child and Tarth's heir. It was already decided that should I need to step aside from my position for a short time that Pod would take over the role of Lord Commander in my absence," Brienne confessed, tone sombre.

 

Surprisingly, instead of continuing to disagree with her Jaime instead slowly nodded his acquiescence to her plan. It made Brienne feel agitated, his easy surrender. It wasn't like a Lannister to give in so easily, and it made her wonder if he had something else in mind to keep her from accompanying him on this quest. It wasn't like Brienne didn't understand his misgivings - of course she did, she had them herself. 

 

But something in Brienne knew she just _had_ to do this. If she didn't and the uprising in the North was successful, what was to stop similar action from being taken here, in the South? The realm couldn't withstand another war and all the death and destruction that would surely follow it. Children raised in the midst of war didn't fare well, and the Lannister’s were still widely regarded as traitors - albeit now in hushed whispers among those at court. What hope would their child stand if this kidnapping did indeed signify the beginnings of another war? 

 

And if Brienne was wholly honest with herself, she also couldn't risk the high possibility of Jaime failing to return to them if he undertook this quest alone. She already knew the desolation of a life without him. She wasn't sure she could withstand it again, not knowing that she could aid Jaime in his mission, and by extension, also help save Sansa from whoever had dared take her hostage.

 

Before her thoughts could take her further down that line of thought, the room was interrupted by the raised words of one of their number.

 

"What can we do to help you?" Pod questioned, face concerned as he looked between Brienne and Jaime.

 

Before either of them could formulate a reply, Bran quickly interjected, "You were each asked to attend this meeting for a purpose. I've placed my trust in you, and I know those present will not fail me, despite certain questionable actions some of you may have taken in the past." Bran pointedly looked towards Bronn and then Jaime when mentioning _'questionable actions'_ , almost like he was reading every wrong the two men had ever done in their lives before this moment. Brienne couldn't help feeling slight relief that the power of that gaze wasn't pointed her way currently. He let the words resonate a moment more before continuing, "Lord Tarly, I believe you have been brewing several types of draughts and various medicines in your personal time?" 

 

Jumping slightly, Sam replied with a quiver in his voice which pitched higher towards the end of his statement, almost like he was asking a question, "I have, my Lord."

 

"Allow the Lord Commander and Ser Jaime access to anything they feel might aid them in their travels," Bran requested succinctly.

 

"But- my Lord, I'm still testing them! They might not all be entirely _safe..._ " 

 

"I trust your brewing skills and research, Lord Tarly. If I did not, I would have made a more experienced man Grand Maester in your place. Allow them access to whatever they need that you also deem safe enough for use," Bran replied in tones easily recognised as a dismissal.

 

"My King," Sam rose before continuing, head bowed low. "I will get to work gathering the medicines I feel will be most useful at once, if I may be dismissed?" Upon Bran signaling that this would be acceptable to him, Sam hurriedly turned away and scurried out the room, presumably going directly to the Grand Maesters workroom where Brienne knew he kept much of his stocks.

 

"I also believe that since being informed of his new status our Master of Coin has spent significant time gathering a network of spies and intelligence, have you not?" Bran revealed, his piercing gaze now once more focused on the man in question.

 

"Information is power, or so I've often heard," Bronn replied nonchalantly, glancing Tyrion's way as he did so.

 

"And what knowledge have you gathered so far, _Lord_ Bronn?" Jaime cut in, voice only containing the slightest traces of bite.

 

Sitting up, Bronn confessed, "Mostly I just hear rumours. Often its things that cannot quite be confirmed and usually sound more witless than the last. However, there was word of dissent among some of the Northern families who were here for the King's coronation. Those you'd find with holdfasts closest to the Wall I believe. Seems the wildlings restocked their supplies with those hidden in the castles there before heading back to where they came from. Some of the Lords have decided that Sansa is the one at fault for not ordering men to ensure the wildlings headed straight for the Wall without any detours, even though most of her own men were wounded or dead by that time." Stretching slightly, Bronn's foot tapped lightly against the leg of his chair as he viewed the others in the room unconcernedly despite each of them giving him their undivided attentions.

 

"How reliable is this information? Can your source be trusted to know what they're talking about?" Brienne wondered, wary to trust words presumably gleamed from drunken men likely found in taverns or brothels.

 

"About as reliable as any other rumour you'd hear after a man has drank a tankard of ale too many," Bronn admitted. "There's no proving one way or the other whether that particular rumour might hold more weight than the one about a marriage proposal Lady Stark apparently received from the Arryn boy on her last night in the Red Keep." Bronn finished in easy tones, a slightly amused glint in his eye as he now focused his attention on Tyrion.

 

"Did your sources say whether or not this proposal was accepted?" Tyrion demanded weakly, in tones as cold and cutting as Brienne had ever heard it.

 

Observing Tyrion closer, Brienne could fully understand why the brash man sat near her seemed so amused. She'd already had her suspicions about Tyrion's feelings regarding Sansa, but it was in this moment that she truly felt they were undeniably confirmed. Upon hearing word of Robin Arryn proposing to Lady Sansa Tyrion had grown pale, a vein popping slightly on his forehead as he continued to focus his piercing gaze upon Bronn. Brienne also couldn't help noticing the way his body seemed to sway momentarily towards the man before Tyrion forced his spine flush against the back of his chair while his fists tightened compulsively like he was readying himself to throw a punch at the sellsword's jeering face.

 

Sighing slightly, Bronn viewed Tyrion speculatively before admitting, "According to the young squire who told me, the Stark girl made it perfectly clear to the little Lord that not only had she had no interest in marrying him but that she would also not be changing her mind in the future, and as such, he shouldn't view her in any other light than that of a loving cousin."

 

The change in Tyrion was instantaneous. His colour seemed to flood back into his cheeks, turning them a deep rosy colour while his whole body appeared to sag like it had been strung tightly on a precipice and just fallen to the right side of it. The pure relief Tyrion was feeling was plain for all to see in the room who cared to take notice. 

 

A stab of guilt ran up her spine, for as much as Brienne was still irate at her new husband, she was only now starting to realise just what exactly Tyrion Lannister had given up to ensure her child would be able to rightfully claim his families name. She wasn't at all certain it was an act many other men would be willing to undertake, especially not if they were still clearly in love with another.

 

The fact that Brienne knew Sansa's feelings for Tyrion ran deeper than friendship almost made the guilt she currently felt unbearable. She had to fix this, she couldn't be the reason for the suffering of those who had willingly given up so much so her and her child wouldn't have to live a life of scorn and ridicule. _Surely there is some way to undo all this,_ Brienne hoped, while another voice inside her wondered, _if the marriage is somehow rescinded, what happens to your child's future?_

 

"Do you think perhaps the Arryn wretch is behind Sansa's abduction?" Tyrion questioned aloud, his voice reedy and strained as he asked the question several others were surely thinking. "To my recollection, the young Lord of the Eyrie doesn't take his wishes and whims being denied well. Lord Royce has done much to change the boy I'm sure, but I doubt his influence would have been able to change an attitude that was already so ingrained in him."

 

"Its as good a theory as any," Davos admitted. "Perhaps you may have more information on the identity of the abductor however, my King?" Davos wondered, nodding towards where Bran sat observing the room and its occupants silently like an interesting play was currently taking place before him.

 

"Unfortunately I do not," Bran admitted, tones almost grudgingly. "My talents are only entirely accurate regarding events from the past. Future and present visions are hazy and ever changing. I only know that Sansa being abducted has now become an unavoidable event. It will transpire no matter what we do now, that is, if it hasn't already. Ultimately the engineer of this plot is currently still as much a mystery to me as to all of you."

 

"So apart from some questionable rumours and a supply of untested potions, we will be going into this quest blind," Jaime acknowledged brusquely. "I admit, I would have hoped for better odds than this."

 

"Lord Davos has a small amount of trusted men around Westeros who you will be able to provide you intel as you travel North, should you need it," Bran added unhelpfully.

 

"What men?" Brienne quietly inquired.

 

"Men from my smuggling days," Davos answered easily as he turned to face her. "They are all men you can trust. They'll give you bread and board for the night should you have need of it, restock your supplies and will likely be able to inform you of local routes not commonly known that you'll be able to travel along quickly and more importantly, unseen. I'll give you something you can present to them before you set off, something to prove that I'm the one who sent you to them."

 

"Thank you, Lord Davos," Brienne responded stiltedly as she already began estimating in her mind how long it may take her and Jaime to reach the Northern borders in the current climate. She suspected they may indeed need all the help they could get.

 

They continued discussing matters for some time, all thoughts of feast and revelry long forgotten. It was only after they'd solidified certain aspects of their plan, and when the candles were close to burning out that Bran chose to dismiss them, citing the need for Brienne and Jaime to rest, for they would have a long journey ahead of them. They had already decided to rise long before light began reaching the sky to ensure they would go unseen by servants and wedding guests alike. They couldn't risk word getting out of Jaime Lannister's survival before their quest had even begun.

 

It was as she was leaving the council chamber that a peculiar thought struck Brienne. _It's curious, the last time I left King's Landing it was following the disaster of Joffrey's wedding. I left alone then. Yet now I leave with his father, following my own marriage to his uncle. Had I known then what I know now, would I have changed anything between us?_ Thinking of the nights spent with Jaime, Brienne's heart gave a painful thump before her thoughts skittered away from memories that still had power enough to wound, _I left to save Sansa then too. May the Gods have mercy and allow me to rescue her before any harm can befall her... may the Seven keep her safe, and us..._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read the above you're aware of the situation. I'm going to try my best to update regularly again, but we will see how it goes. I'm hopeful I can get the next chapter out a lot quicker than I did this one, however.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the chapter and to get the next one to you guys soon. The next POV character is someone I haven't written for in a while, so I'm really excited to complete that and get that out to you all.
> 
> So... do you reckon it'll be smooth sailing for Brienne and Jaime? And who do you think is behind the kidnapping? I'd love to hear your theories :)


	13. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I no longer have a beta for this fic, therefore any mistakes in this are entirely my own. I've tried to squirrel out all of them but sometimes I don't see them for looking. Typical, right?
> 
> I just want to thank everyone who took the time to leave me a comment and wished me and my family the best after all that's been going on at home. It means more than you know at the moment, it really does.
> 
> Just to update you on things with me, they still aren't great... turns out my grandma has cancer. I don't really know the details of it yet beyond the type that it is. Fingers crossed they can do something, but at the moment she's way too frail to operate on, so I'm not sure how many options are left to us due to her age (she's 82).
> 
> In terms of with my neighbour, he's actually in prison now! He got sent down for 18 months as before it all kicked off for us with him he threatened his ex-wife from 30 years ago and two adult kids with a machete for "disrespecting" him. Here's hoping by the time he gets out we've moved, but in the meantime me and mum can breathe a bit easier.
> 
> Anyway, enough about me and onto the chapter. I hope you'll all enjoy it and as always let me know your opinions in the comments. Thanks for taking the time to read!

 

If asked, Sansa would have been unable to state how long she had been sat in her chair, staring morosely at the crossed out and blotted words on the parchment that lay before her. She currently felt in battle with herself, fighting against the unruly emotions churning inside her as several different beginnings came to mind for the letter, each more inappropriate for her missive than the last. Sansa knew none of them would be acceptable to express to the recipient, and the longer she gazed upon the unyielding emptiness of the page the more mocked she felt at the bareness that continued to meet her there.

 

_I understand your choice... I respect why you needed to do this... I wish that we could... perhaps we may still be..._ sighing irritably as she stared down at the several false starts that lay upon the page before her, Sansa picked up the sheet and let the paper be consumed by the candle-flame to her right. Once there was nothing left of the paper but ash she retrieved one last piece of parchment for her correspondence, yet she knew it was no good. She knew how the only thing that she wished to express was also the one thing she couldn't risk breathing life into by writing, not even just for her own eyes. The words she felt could cause nothing but heartache for all parties if they were ever seen, and as such she was unwilling to deliver such cruelty, especially now.

 

_Had things been different, would there have been any hope for us? Could we have been happy, as man and wife?_

 

Breathing in shallowly at the shame she felt at the thought of such words reaching him, Sansa quickly shook such melancholy imaginings from her mind. She was a woman grown now, and would also soon be Queen. Such thoughts were fine to indulge in girlhood, but she was a girl no longer, and as such she refused to continue brooding upon them. With the feeling of decisiveness settling over her, and knowing she aught to write some form of missive before retiring for the evening Sansa quickly dipped her quill into the dark blue ink pot once more before beginning to write words that would be much more acceptable for Tyrion's eyes to read.

 

_Tyrion,_

 

_I hope this letter finds you well. I daresay by the time you read this you will once more be a married man. I wish nothing but good fortune, well health and a prosperous future for yourself and Brienne - the Gods know you both deserve happiness after all that's transpired. If there is anything I can do to assist either of you in the future, rest assured that I am only a raven away. Do not hesitate in sending me a letter and if it is within my power to do so I will gladly aid you in any possible way I can._

 

_At present I am only roughly a days travel from Winterfell and as such felt it would be prudent to begin corresponding with you now rather than after my coronation. It's due to take place in a mere three days so long as everything goes to plan. I don't mind confiding in you Tyrion that I am somewhat nervous about the event. The North needs a strong leader, now more than ever. I cannot afford to fail them, not after all they sacrificed for us during the Long Night and continued to sacrifice in joining the battle for King's Landing._

 

_I daresay we will have much to write one another about regarding the future of both of our Kingdom's going forward. The North is going to need some time to rebuild, but it is my hope that it won't be long before we can begin making trade arrangements and likewise work on building and maintaining the strong relationship our Kingdom's will need with one another as we each build them anew. I have yet to decide upon who will be my Hand, or if I even wish to have one, and as such for the near present at least you will have to engage wholly with me on these matters. I trust you will not take advantage of my inexperience regarding political situations, for you are much too good a man, and in truth, too good a friend to do so. I daresay Maester Wolkan will advise me where he can, but I am not naive enough to be unable to recognise how much I still need to learn about ruling. I was taught how to run a castle of course, but I daresay running the whole North will be a significantly greater challenge. I merely wish to prove myself up to such a task._

 

_I hope I'll receive an answering raven from you soon, Tyrion. I will miss you dearly while I'm in the North - and Brienne and Bran too, of course. Look after them for me in my absence please, if you can. Brienne has always been much too often alone, and will have a good deal many burdens to carry in the upcoming months, especially with all the changes that will soon occur in both of your lives upon your marriage. And for all Bran is no longer the boy you met, he isn't as infallible as I think he would like everyone to believe. The boy is hidden away in there still, if only you know where to look._

 

_Your friend,_

 

_Sansa_

 

When she was satisfied that the letter conveyed only the safer emotions she felt, Sansa reached for the crimson wax she kept to hand and soon melted it onto the letter before quickly stamping the scroll closed with the direwolf sigil of House Stark before it could fully set. She absently noted to herself as she did so that it would be expected of her to have new stamps made upon her arrival at Winterfell, to have a direwolf with a crown upon its head, much like the new sigil used by her brother. She hadn't liked the look of it much when she had spied it upon her brother's desk, feeling it was too unlike what she had always known, much like Winterfell had been when she had first returned to it before her ill-fated marriage. Much was changing, and unlike in her girlhood, Sansa had now learnt the value of safety in reliability. What did she have that was reliable to her now?

 

Shaking the thoughts from herself, she rose from her seat and walked towards the raven she knew would be quickest before securely attaching the letter onto Soren's leg. Ensuring it understood, or at least, understood as much as ravens could understand where it would be going, she watched its great black wings unravel as it began its journey towards the South, not turning from the opening in her tent until the bird was completely out of her sight. 

 

_Will he will be pleased to hear from me? Will married life will suit them both? They deserve to finally find happiness._ However upon the thought, Sansa couldn't help feeling a painful tightening in her chest at the vision in her mind of them together. While she knew she could never have had such a life with Tyrion herself whether he married or not, a childish part of herself hadn't stopped dreaming that _somehow,_ some way,  the Gods might have been kind enough to allow her to have the one thing she had truly wished for. Of course, all those hopes had been dashed the day her brother officially became King. 

 

_Stupid girl,_ she berated herself cruelly at the impossible thoughts, _when have the Gods ever been kind to a Stark?_

 

\----------------------

 

Despite the expectations of all who traveled with her, Sansa had soon found herself ahead of time for reaching Winterfell. She had long suspected that things had changed since the Long Night, that rather than becoming worse, their current winter was indeed becoming milder than any they had known before. As such, she was likely to reach home in less than a days travel, a thought that couldn't help filling Sansa with relief, but also with other, less welcome emotions. The thoughts of reaching Winterfell and all that was waiting for her there always seemed to lead to uncomfortable fluttering in her stomach of late. She was excited for her future, of course she was, and yet she couldn't help but also feel wary of it.

 

She had never known what type of ruler Robb had been, but everyone liked to say how much of a good King he was, how loved. _But it didn't stop the Bolton's from betraying him, did it? Or the Frey's from slaughtering both him and mother._ The coldness that never failed to greet Sansa when she thought of her oldest brother ran through her body as she imagined the brutal fate that had befallen Robb at her uncle's wedding, the thoughts causing her to shiver violently where she sat upon her chestnut mare. 

 

Jon had been named King too, but that still hadn't stopped the whispers of _bastard,_ and _unworthy_ from being spoken in dark corners where the owners of the words didn't think they could be seen. Those whispers had only grown in volume when he'd brought the Dragon Queen to Winterfell. Yes, people had loved him, but they'd also turned on him the moment they felt he wasn't infallible, just as they had done to Robb. Just as they had done to House Stark when they'd thought only a daughter and a bastard remained to fight for it.

 

How much worse would things be for her as a woman ruler, Sansa wondered? The North was unused to the idea of a Queen, and for all Sansa trusted her men, she wasn't stupid to the fact that several of them were already grousing about having to take orders from a _'mere woman, and one sullied by a Lannister and that damned bastard'._ Her father had always engendered respect, but how was Sansa meant to achieve that if they refused to see beyond her sex? 

 

She wasn't blind to the other whispers either, whispers that described her great beauty, of what a prize she would be after her coronation - not only heir to Winterfell, but the key to the North, an easy way to become King. Sansa once again felt the pressures on her that were never too far away, not just of continuing her families line, their legacy, but of the pressure to do right by her people, to make the _right_ choice. A choice that would likely be entirely wrong for her. 

 

And yet when Sansa thought about her future and the wedding that was sure to come, it wasn't the tall, handsome figure she had dreamt of in her childhood that came to her, and it certainly wasn't the golden image of Joffrey she had once wished for before she knew better either. No, each time she imagined her husband, it was always the image of Tyrion that came to her. 

 

Sometimes in her dreams he would stand regal and tense beside a heart tree, his eyes fixed on her with clear admiration and adoration as she gracefully moved towards him. Other times he would be gazing down at her upon the dais beside the High Septon with joy clear in his eyes for all to see before grasping her hand as they readied themselves to say their vows before the Seven. 

 

She kept these thoughts secret, knowing how many would think her foolish for dreaming of such a man, but Sansa had long ago learnt to judge beyond something so trifling as appearance. Tyrion was so much more than just his outer shell, there was much to admire about him if one only took the time to truly know him and see his true character. Of all the people Sansa had met in her life, Tyrion's mind was still among the best she had ever known. His kindness was something she would never again take for granted, and his wit still appealed to her over that of any other person in her acquaintance. Sansa only wished that now he was settled, he might finally come to realise his own worth.

 

Thoughts of marriage once again took her mind to unpleasant places she could not easily hide from. It already curdled Sansa's belly to reminisce about the proposal she had so far receieved, and she wasn't even Queen yet! Sansa knew logic dictated she would receive many more discomforting encounters like the one from her cousin in the future, she only wished they might not be so humiliating as the first offer she had been forced to contend with. 

 

Robin's appearance outside her chambers had been surprising, the sight of him filling her with awkwardness as she recounted when their last spoken private meeting and the slap she had subsequently gifted him at his careless actions. While Sansa hadn't expected the encounter to go pleasantly, neither had she expected the meeting to go quite as terribly as it had done...

 

_Opening the heavy door to her greeting room, Sansa was surprised and more than a little disappointed to see Robin standing before her, his tall frame half hidden in shadow. A part of her had hoped that perhaps - but no, it was better this way. Better that their last private meeting be their true parting rather than dragging on the pain for her by meeting once again and pretending those false, unfeeling words had not been exchanged between them. She had wished him well, and in that moment she had never wished for anything more sincerely. Let that be his last memory of her, for anything more could only lead her to more disappointment and heartache._

 

_"May I come in, dear cousin?" Robin questioned, an easy smile on his lips as he leaned up against her doorway._

 

_"Of course." Stepping aside, Sansa couldn't help asking, "I have to admit, I'm quite curious to learn what's so important you felt you had to come to my chambers at this time. I do hope everything is well with you?"_

 

_"Everything is fine," Robin replied easily. "Or will be, once you accept my offer."_

 

_"And what offer might that be?" Sansa wondered, curiosity notable in her tone._

 

_"Why, of marriage of course." Robin answered, nonplussed. "What else?"_

 

_It was several moments before Sansa returned to her senses, but as she did so she felt her legs walk steadily towards the window before replying, "I had thought you might want to discuss trade between the North and the Eyrie. I have to admit, marriage wasn't something I envisioned you discussing with me anytime in the near future, or ever, if I'm being entirely truthful."_

 

_"It would be a good match, Sansa. Marrying me is the most logical choice, and it's what our families would have wanted. Lord Royce advised me to be patient, to court you first before extending an offer of marriage, but what does he know?" Robin stated, his voice filled with an arrogance born of his overwhelming confidence._

 

_"You've spoken of me to Lord Royce?" Sansa questioned, voice sharp as she turned round to face her insolent young cousin._

 

_"He agrees of course. Its the best match, especially considering your circumstances."_

 

_"And what circumstances might those be?" Sansa wondered, face colouring to a similar hue as her hair at the implications she suspected were meant in his offhand statement._

 

_Either Robin didn't notice her growing outrage or disregarded it, for pouring himself a generous cup of summer wine before taking her favourite seat, he continued,_

 

_"Well, your colourful history of course. First you marry and bring shame upon your house by aligning yourself to the most traitorous family in all the Kingdoms. And its not just any Lannister you wedded, but the most twisted of them all, the Imp! And if that wasn't damaging enough to your reputation, the rumours surrounding your time spent with Lord Baelish, followed by your marriage to that bastard Ramsay Snow are surely reasons enough to limit your attractions as a bride. But rest assured, I don't hold any of that against you. I'd be a good husband to you, Sansa, rumours be damned."_

 

_"What rumours?" Sansa asked, voice venomous as she focused on not hitting her cousin squarely in his self-satisfied, half-witted face._

 

_"That surely you must be..." As if realising what he was about to say was something that wouldn't be acceptable in any company, and especially not before the woman who he still hoped would accept his marriage proposal, Robin trailed off. His face paled slightly before he suddenly downed the goblet of wine before him, his eyes now intent on staring into its empty depths rather than in her direction._

 

_"Finish what you were about to say, dear cousin." Sansa insisted, gripping the back of a chair with all her strength as she looked down with a piercing gaze at the young man before her._

 

_"No, forgive me, it was rude of me to be so-"_

 

_"Insulting? Ill-mannered? Presumptuous? Whatever you may be thinking, rest assured that whatever rumour you're referring to - I certainly wish to hear it. Do tell me, what is this rumour?" Sansa demanded, her voice holding a dangerous edge as she did so._

 

_As if debating whether or not it would hurt his cause, Robin spent several moments more looking into his empty goblet as if searching for some courage that might be found at the bottom of it before facing Sansa once more. Licking his dry lips, it took him several moments more to verbalise the thoughts that were clearly upon his mind._

 

_"That you must be barren," Robin admitted. Sansa wasn't sure what her face portrayed, but he quickly followed the statement with, "Rest assured, I don't believe such foul rumours. Plenty of women fail to bear children with their first husband. Its understandable, especially considering he's hardly what you'd call a full man. And you weren't married long to your second husband either. I'm sure that when we marry I'll ensure you're with child before our first year as Lord and Lady ends."_

 

_Several coarse phrases rushed to Sansa's mind at Robin's callous words, and none of them were terms that should be known by a lady, let alone uttered by one. Focusing on the fire beside her, she found herself repeating the names of several past Lord of Winterfell inside her head until she felt calm enough to turn back towards her conceited cousin and issue him a reply fit to be uttered by a woman of her station and responsibilities._

 

_But how she resented the fact she couldn't issue him with a true dressing down followed by a hearty punch!_

 

_"Lord Arryn-" She began coldly._

 

_"Robin," he insisted. "Family should not be so formal, especially considering the closer relations I hope to soon foster between us."_

 

_"Cousin," Sansa instead began as she stared him squarely in the eye. "I love you as all family loves one of their kin, but that is all we can ever be to one another. While I'm..._ appreciative... _of your attentions, I fear I must decline your proposal." She finished succinctly, observing him closely to ensure he understood the full ramifications of her words._

 

_"Sansa, if its something I've said-"_

 

_"While I admit_ _yours was not the most eloquent of marriage proposals, it ultimately made no impact on my decision. You could have spoken the sweetest words to me and my answer still would have been a refusal." Sansa announced matter of factly._

 

_"And why won't you marry me?" Robin demanded with an ugly sneer on his face, fist coming down heavily upon the arm of her chair as he did so. "I'm Lord of the Eyrie! You would be lucky to have such a good husband, and its what our mothers wanted-"_

 

_"No, Robin, that's what your mother wanted. Mine wanted me to be happy and she would wish me to make the best decision I currently can under my... reduced circumstances. As you say, you're Lord of the Eyrie. Your place is there, just as mine is in the North. Even if I wasn't about to become Queen I would still be unable to accept this offer of marriage from you for that reason alone."_

 

_"You may feel differently once you have time to consider. Women are well known for being changeable creatures," Robin announced haughtily, dismissive of her words._

 

_"I assure you that will never be the case." Sansa began coldly, exasperation also beginning to creep into her tone as she explained, "I will never accept a marriage proposal from you, and as such find it quite insulting that you ignore my words so openly. When you think of me, think of me as your loving cousin, for that is all I shall ever be to you, Lord Arryn. Now if you would please leave, I wish to get an early night for I have many hard days of travel before me." Sansa finished decisively before stalking towards the door and opening it widely, making it clear to him that their meeting was very much adjourned._

 

_Before passing through the door, Robin moved close to Sansa, admitting, "I was perhaps not as thoughtful as I could have been in my proposal to you, Sansa. But please, do think on my offer some more before dismissing it entirely. Its likely to be the best offer you'll get." He finished spitefully before exiting her rooms._

 

Sansa only hoped any future proposals she would likely have the displeasure of receiving wouldn't be quite so mortifying as the one with her cousin. Lord Royce had chosen to accompany her North to discuss future arrangements between Winterfell and the Eyrie before returning home, and as of yet he hadn't mentioned the failed proposal made to her by Robin. Sansa doubted Robin would have been able to keep the contents of their meeting to himself, and as such suspected Lord Royce must know the full extent of her rejection of his Lord. The thought made her feel an undeniable awkwardness in his presence despite the friendly demeanor she presented whenever she found herself in his company. She only hoped he had sense enough not to try and appeal to her on Robin's behalf while he remained North.

 

Focusing on thoughts of home, Sansa couldn't help dearly hoping that ruling might prove easier than encounters like that with her cousin, but then, when had anything in her life been easy?

 

\--------------------------------------

 

Not long after Sansa set foot in Winterfell she quickly ensured that the Northern Lords present were soon informed of her plan to hold a gathering later that day. Not only was she unwilling to waste precious time determining the loyalty of the men and women present towards her, she also understood that a sign of dedication towards them would be better appreciated if it was shown as a priority rather than as a perceived afterthought. Due to the ravens Sansa had received on the road from Maester Wolkan she had been kept abreast of most matters those present in the castle had been discussing in her absence, and she also wanted to ensure that everyone understood their positions now that the war had ended.

 

While Sansa hadn't expected the meeting to run smoothly, neither had she anticipated the open hostility she had received from some of the Lords either. It would seem it would take significantly more time than she had predicted to win the loyalty of those who were soon to pledge themselves to her, and rather than feel a rush of excitement at the challenge that presented her Sansa could only feel weariness at the prospect, especially upon seeing just how widespread the negative sentiments against her were.

 

The gathering had begun well enough, she supposed. Several of the Lords had rushed to give her compliments and kindness, meanwhile others were even bolder in their attempts at flattery. Each offer seemingly became more bolder than the last to try and secure her preference towards them - one man promised Sansa the best horses in his keep, another stated how he could ensure her stocks would be satisfactorily refilled with food from their own stores, and another Lord offered to provide her with the best satin's and silks money could buy, all in the hopes of ensuring she looked upon them with a favorable eye, and likely be willing to aid them in return once her rule was secure.

 

The flattery and false love rankled Sansa, but she accepted it all with the grace and appreciation that a future Queen should employ while ensuring she neither accepted nor showed overflowing appreciation for any of the offers made of her. She was reluctant to display even the hint of favoritism that she'd sometimes seen Cersei employ, unwilling to suggest preference where none existed just so she could feel some level of cruel amusement at the lengths certain men were willing to go to before an attractive woman of status. 

 

Of course, this meant that it wasn't long before the overbearing overtures turned to grievances, each Lord becoming more affronted than the last at her refusals. _I daresay they thought to find me easily flattered, my preference something they could ensure quickly,_ Sansa thought to herself wryly, _may this meeting soon teach them that I'm no longer a woman easily won by pretty words and easy smiles._

 

While some of the men present flattered her, others thought they could easily intimidate Sansa into submitting to their will, some stating how she should bequeath the lands of other, less worthy Lord's onto them for the services they provided to her House. Of course, they soon learnt that this form of address worked on her no better than the flattery that had come before it. Sansa steadfastly refused these requests in spite of the growing ire in the hall, making note of the responses of all those present as she did so.

 

While none dared question the decisions she made in her presence, Sansa knew the likely reason behind this easy acquiescence. She wouldn't be surprised if she found certain Lords demanding a private audience with her over the next few days, wrongly believing they could whisper sweet words in her ear while also poisoning her mind against the others present, thereby ensuring her favor. Sansa wasn't unaware of the whispers that had taken place in her absence regarding her youth and inexperience, of how she needed a strong hand to lead her as Queen. It was a myth she wished to dispel as quickly as possible.

 

Even after her refusal of their petitions the gathering had gone acceptably well, at least, that is how it had seemed to Sansa. In truth it was her admission of the promise she had made to Sam Tarly that caused the greatest opposition, and while she had been expecting a certain amount of grievance over the vow she had made, Sansa still hadn't expected the high degree of rancor her announcement had received.

 

"So were still expected to act as servants to the South, despite the fact that none present consented to the pledge you made? A pledge you made before it was decided you'd be our Queen I might add! You're not a true northerner, your mother was from the South and you'll always be malleable to the wishes of your Southern allies, especially the wishes of your brother, the Southern King Stark! Now who here agrees with me?" Cley Cerwyn announced to the concurrence of several Lords and one or two Ladies hidden in shadow behind him. Several of the men slammed their fists against the rough stone walls to express their agreement all the more thoroughly.

 

"How dare you speak to your Queen this way! You need to learn how to show some respect-" Wylan Manderly began, rising laboriously from his chair as he did so, his breathing heavy and his face flushed with fury.

 

"Respect for the wife of Ramsay Bolton, after all he did to my kin? What has she done to earn my respect aye? We were better off under the bastard White Wolf than we will be under a feeble woman!" He announced bitterly again, hand reaching for the sword at his waist as he did so.

 

Having grown up with brothers Sansa could long ago recognise the signs of an quarrel about to become uncontrollable, and she would not have it. There had been too much bloodshed in the North, and they needed to learn respect for her, to learn she was not so easily controlled. _This will be the last time anyone calls me feeble, or suggests I'm easily persuaded,_ Sansa vowed.

 

"You forget yourself, my Lord," Sansa rebuked, tone harsh as she pitched it above the grousing of the men in the chamber who soon turned silent as they focused upon her. "Not only was was I forced to marry Ramsay Snow, I was also the one who killed him. I daresay his bones are still among the yards somewhere if you wish to see them. Although one word of warning if you enter the kennels - I believe his dogs still have quite the appetite." Leveling a cold gaze upon the uppity man, she was satisfied to note the bloodless pallor that had overtook Lord Cerwyn's face at her words. He soon returned to his seat on unsteady legs. 

 

"I offer my most sincere apology, my Lady," Lord Cerywn stated slowly, resentment clear in his burning eyes.

 

"While I am not... _dismissive_ of what House Bolton took from you, neither can I allow you to speak to me in that manner. If you or anyone else present thinks it wise to act in such a way again, do know that you will be punished accordingly. Every Lord and Lady in this room has lost someone they love due to war, and it is a pain we all sadly share in. While we cannot bring the dead back, we can move forward and ensure we provide for those that depend upon us. A part of that is building an alliance with the South, whether some present wish for it or not."

 

The hall was quiet for some moments, only the slightest buzzing whisper heard here and there as those present considered her words. It was then that she saw Lord Royce move confidently towards her, his steps measured as he made his way to her side before speaking lowly in her ear.

 

"Perhaps another deal can be made with Lord Tarly, my Lady, rather than the one that was proposed? The North has much to rebuild, surely that should be your priority above sending your forces out into matters that have little impact on you? As you say, your realm needs to move forward and begin building alliances, something the Vale will happily begin the process of after your coronation." Lord Royce spoke in an assertive manner, and while Sansa knew his tones were meant to soothe her they only helped to irritate her all the more.

 

"You would have the first act I do as ruler be to break my word, Lord Royce?" Sansa whispered sharply before turning her gaze to the room at large. "House Stark keeps their word. Just as I swore my aid to House Tarly I swear my word to all of you now that the North is my biggest concern, and that I will not rest until we are stronger than ever before. We may be a sovereign nation but that does not mean that we will not need support in the future from other Kingdoms. It is better to remain on good terms with them now rather than regret any hasty actions in the future."

 

It wasn't long before the meeting naturally came to a close, something which Sansa was extremely grateful for. In truth, she wanted nothing more than to lock herself away in her chambers, draw the heavy satin drapes closed around her bed and remain in complete seclusion until summer arrived. However that was not to be, for there was much too much to do before her coronation and Sansa knew matters would only become more hectic once she was officially crowned. 

 

Due to these musings she almost missed the fact that she was not as alone in the room as she had at first thought, would have done if not for the pointed cough that soon sounded to her left. Raising her head slowly from where she had been gazing down unseeingly at the dents in the wooden chair she was still sat upon, her eyes soon locked onto the weathered, stoical face of Lord Royce before her.

 

"My Lady," Lord Royce greeted, bowing slightly in acknowledgement of her before moving closer to where Sansa remained seated.

 

"My Lord, is there some matter I can help you with that you did not wish to discuss publicly?" Sansa queried, tone neutral.

 

_Please don't it be about the marriage proposal, don't be regarding that Gods damned proposal..._

 

"I am here to discuss the marriage proposal made to you by Lord Arryn," Lord Royce admitted, glancing away for a moment before continuing in softer tones, "He was quite distressed at your refusal of him and wished for me to extend his apologies for his unskillful attempts at proposing to you."

 

"Tell him it is already forgotten," Sansa responded stiltedly while the crass, disrespectful words of her cousin repeated themselves to her once more.

 

"He also wished for me to renew his offer to you, my Lady," Lord Royce declared, his gaze intent upon Sansa while awaiting her reaction.

 

"As I already stated to Lord Robin, I am unable to accept such an offer and as such must decline it once again," Sansa declared haltingly.

 

"My Lady, I do not wish to be impertinent, but surely it would be more prudent to consider the advantages your house would gain from an alliance with Lord Arryn? Several other Lords will soon come to you if they have not done already with offers of their own, why not stop all suppositions early in your rule by accepting the proposal from Robin?" He beseeched her, tone almost pleading.

 

Taking her silence as a sign of consideration, Lord Royce made to move to her side. He was only halted by Sansa rising from her seat before him, her face inscrutable as she gazed down at him from her higher position on the step.

 

"You take liberties in talking to me in such a manner, my Lord," Sansa replied evenly while battling with herself to keep her temper. She knew Lord Yohn likely meant no harm, yet she still couldn't stop herself from feeling a certain measure of vexation at the interference. "But since you're someone I've come to regard as a friend I will answer you truthfully. My priority is the North, not a marriage. I couldn't marry someone whose priorities would naturally align elsewhere, Robin's priority would rightly be the Eyrie, not me or my Kingdom."

 

"You may be surprised at the allowances Lord Arryn would make for your current situation should you wed," Lord Royce confided. "His father gave up governance of the Eyrie to become King Robert's Hand, and should you wish it I am sure Lord Robin would submit to making his home by your side in Winterfell."

 

"That as may be, my priority is still to the North and not to a marriage," Sansa concluded, hoping the conversation may end there in the face of her unwavering convictions.

 

"And yet marriage would likely be a great way to pull the North together and help restabalise it. Lords will no longer fight for your favor if you are wed and as such unavailable, and of course there is the fact to consider that a ruler without an heir is always left in a precarious position-" Lord Royce began haughtily before being cut off.

 

"I am still a young woman, Lord Yohn. I have plenty of time to find a husband and produce the heirs I need - after winter. Now if you'll excuse me, there is much still to organise before my coronation."

 

"Why do you dismiss Lord Robin so easily? He is also young, and likely wouldn't be adverse to a long engagement." Lord Royce tried again, cheeks reddening in his vexation.

 

"Lord Arryn is... willful. I could not make him a good wife, nor could he make me a good husband," Sansa admitted, head aching slightly at the strained conversation.

 

She was sure that Lord Royce would begin another argument for her cousin, but instead the man just seemed to observe her for several moments before nodding his acceptance of her position, his face betraying nothing of his feelings on the matter.

 

"I understand, Lady Stark. Do forgive me for detaining you for so long," He stated in a complying tone.

 

"There is nothing to forgive, you were merely looking out for the interests of your Lord," Sansa acknowledged, relief evident in her voice. "Good-day, my Lord."

 

Sansa watched as Lord Royce left the great hall, taking some time to recollect herself before continuing on with her days plans. As she made her way towards the kitchens, Sansa couldn't help feeling a prickle of discomfort at their parting. She doubted this would be the last she'd hear about Robin's intent to make her his wife.

 

\--------------------------------------

 

When Sansa first laid eyes upon the gown she was to wear for her coronation she almost couldn't resist pinching herself, unable to believe that the elegant, glorious gown displayed before her was truly meant for herself. Her eyes welled up as each new detail caught her eye - she could honestly say that she had never seen anything more breathtakingly ravishing, Sansa didn't even think Margaery's gowns could compete with its elegance. 

 

She could spend one-hundred winter's sewing and she'd never be able to match the gown before her, for it's creator had somehow managed to encapsulate all that was important in her life. Reaching a tentative hand towards the soft material, Sansa's fingertips lovingly worked their way down the embroidered cottons and silks in awe. While she wasn't an expert, neither was Sansa a stranger to sewing, and as such she understood the extreme skill and absolute love that must have gone into creating such a garment in such a limited amount of time.

 

"Who made this gown?" Sansa questioned quietly, eyeing the ladies present before her who were to assist her in dressing.

 

A short, stout, dark haired girl who could only be a few years older than Sansa spoke up timidly, "We all did, Lady Stark. We knew that while you hoped we might be able to add certain aspects to the dress to honor your parents that you'd also told to the Maester that they weren't vital to the design. That given the short time left to make it a simple design would suit you very well, but... for all you did for us, m'lady, we thought you deserved to look every inch the Queen this day." 

 

The sentiment was repeated by the other women in the room, and looking each of them in the eye in turn Sansa found herself fighting against her body to push back the wetness in her eyes at the open, grateful looks mirrored on each of the faces before her as they in turn look upon her.

 

"You honor me with it. I cannot thank you all enough for the time and skill put into creating such a magnificent gown," Sansa admitted, voice cracking slightly.

 

It was a surprisingly quick process to dress her, and as they placed each layer upon her Sansa couldn't stop herself from marveling at the gown, at all the small details that were brought to life each time she moved the heavy material just so. For many of the Lords in attendance, they might miss the subtle messages her outfit signified - however this message was for the women of the North, and something she was sure they couldn't fail to note when they would soon lay eyes upon her.

 

To say her gown honoured her Stark heritage was obvious, for the wolf head on her shoulder and the direwolves of the crown were easy to spot with an unobservant eye. The other meanings in the gown were perhaps not as evident upon a cursory glance, but no less important for it. The vivid red weirwood leaves crawled up the right sleeve of the dress, signifying her commitment to the Old Gods, and opposite that her sleeve was decorated with scales, denoting the dedication to her mothers House and their words - _'Family, Duty, Honor',_ words important for anyone of note to follow, but even more-so for Sansa after all she had lost in her life. The needle necklace that had become almost a talisman to Sansa throughout her recent years also found itself onto her gown, safely fastened at her waist. _In a way, it is almost like Arya is here with me still._

 

With her gown so extravagantly detailed, Sansa's hair was as simple as it could possibly be in contrast. She didn't want to hide behind the intricate designs that were often popular in the South. No, she wanted the men and women to see her plain, to see that she was just as northern as any of them. 

 

Almost before Sansa realised it, the chiming began, and Sansa embarked on her journey towards the great hall, towards the future laid out plain before her... 

 

Much of the ceremony passed without Sansa able to repeat what had occurred, so heavy were her nerves. However, she was gratified that it passed without a spectacle, and that the Lords who had given her so much cause for concern upon first arriving at Winterfell were also the ones who had given their fealty to her easily and without the contempt she had partly been expecting. _I wonder if Bran felt any anxiety during his coronation?_ A part of her distantly wondered as another Lord quietly knelt before her to swear fealty while Sansa acknowledged the act with an easy smile.

 

Several Ladies also pledged their fealty to Sansa while promising to provide what little they could spare to her stores to show their support of their Queen. While Sansa was deeply touched by the sacrifice the women in her realm were willing to make it was something she had to graciously decline, much to distress of the women before her.

 

"While I may be Queen, that doesn't mean that I'm going to take from others to keep my own people well fed. We all need to survive the winter, and not at the expense of others," Sansa pronounced in an authoritative tone that had several of the guests in the hall glancing towards her.

 

"And how will we manage that? Many of our stores were pillaged after the battle, I doubt most of us have enough food to even last us through half of winter," Lady Dustin inquired, her head slightly tilted as she focused on Sansa almost as if she was appraising her.

 

"The King - my brother - has promised to provide the North with some non-perishable goods from the Reach," Sansa admitted while observing the response her words had on those listening.

 

"Forgive me, my Queen," Lady Dustin began, bowing her head before she continued, "But what does he wish for in return?" 

 

While Sansa little enjoyed the way she was being questioned, she felt it pertinent to answer Lady Dustin's inquiry now before any misinformation could begin to spread. "The supplies come without cost, for we already paid it in battle. It is a sign of his gratitude, and also..." Sansa trailed off slightly, aware of the low hum of whispering that was growing at her words. "For all my brother is the ruler in the South, that does not negate the fact that the same blood runs through his veins as mine. He is of the North, and he would not see the North suffer while it is within his power to prevent it."

 

Fortunately that seemed to ease some of the concerns Sansa could clearly see were on the faces of many individuals present. She knew it would not be the last inquiry she received on the matter, but for now at least she had averted a calamity. Sansa only hoped that the longer she ruled, the more adept she would become at granting the wishes of those in her realm.

 

The festivities continued long into the night, and before Sansa left she must have spoken to each person present at least four times, listening intently to everything they chose to discuss with her. When she made it clear she was retiring for the evening many of those present tried to convince her to remain, a large number of them were merry with ale or wine, but their requests went unfulfilled, and Sansa left the great hall alone to retire to her chambers.

 

She had yet to appoint an official guard, but even if she had, she wouldn't have expected them to leave the festivities early on her account. It was a short journey back to her chambers, and one she knew well. Sansa hardly needed guarding for _that._ Pushing the heavy wooden door into her chambers open and feeling a soothing sensation overcome her at the familiar creaking noise it made, Sansa made several short strides towards her vanity table before sitting down heavily in the plush chair there.

 

Breathing a sigh of relief at the peacefulness of her chambers, Sansa carefully removed the slim, ornate crown from her head - _much heavier than it looks_ \- before beginning the much longer process of detaching the more extravagant pieces from her gown. She began with the direwolf upon her shoulder before attempting to remove the weighty, elegantly decorated cape that had hung elegantly from her shoulders since dressing that morning. 

 

It was as she was neatly folding the thick cape that Sansa noticed the emerald coloured decanter filled with deep red wine on the small table closest to her vanity that someone had left for her. While she was not in much mood for wine, Sansa knew it would likely help settle her enlivened spirits and aid her in sleeping much quicker than if she didn't partake. Pouring herself a small measure, she drank it quickly, for if she hadn't she wouldn't have drank it at all, noting that the wine had a peculiar, bitter aftertaste to it that was not pleasurable to drink whatsoever.

 

Thinking nothing more of it, Sansa decided to make quick work of her nighttime practices, longing for nothing more than the comfort of her own bed, something she had sorely missed when traveling upon the road. Moving towards the dark ebony chest where Sansa's sleep-gown's were kept, it wasn't long before the sudden irritation began to overtake her as several black spots began dancing across her vision. Placing her hand upon the cool stone wall to steady herself, she soon felt her side leaning against it as her vision began to dim as it was slowly encompassed by darkness. 

 

A sudden, panicky feeling began in Sansa's chest at the knowledge that this wasn't passing. The feeling only intensified as she realised the lurching feeling was caused by the fact that she could no longer feel her legs. Before Sansa knew it she felt her knees land heavily against the wooden flooring, meanwhile her left hand began stinging abominably due to the skin that had likely been scraped off as it had pulled along the harsh stone wall when she began her descent.

 

Absently, she was aware of the creaking noise her door made upon opening, signifying that someone had let themselves into her chambers. _It must be a maid come to help me undress for the night, thank the Gods._

 

"Send for the Maester Wolkan immediately," Sansa managed to weakly gasp out. "Tell him I've been suddenly overcome by illness," She managed to explain, paying little attention to the fact that rather than leave her room to get help, the person who had entered began moving towards her instead. 

 

The last feeling Sansa had before she passed out was one of extreme distress at the cold realisation she felt upon the words of the intruder. Feeling their hands grasping at her, she tried to fight them away but to no avail, her limbs suddenly too heavy and unwieldy for her to control. _I know that voice. How stupid I am to not have planned for this..._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed the process of writing this chapter. There has only been 1(!) Sansa chapter before now, so it was fun to go back into her mindset, put on my Sansa playlist and write the first part for her. I thought I'd struggle a lot more with writing Sansa chapters than I have done, I'm glad to be wrong! 
> 
> I especially enjoyed writing a certain conversation in the first half of the chapter, that wasn't originally going to be in here but my muse decided to include it, so of course I obliged. Here's hoping you all enjoyed the contents of this chapter too!
> 
> In this chapter Sansa is finally starting to realise the heavy burden being Queen is truly going to mean for her, but nevertheless she's gearing up for the task... Pity she's been kidnapped before she can properly begin isn't it? The identity of the kidnapper will be revealed in the next chapter. I'm hoping you all think the identity of them is a good twist while also making sense once you read the next chapter. 
> 
> Until the next update :)


	14. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first, I am so so sorry it has taken me this long to update. As some of you might be aware I've had some pretty big things going on in my personal life, but I should actually be moving by next month, so I'm hoping by the end of March to be updating regularly once more! Thank you to all those of you who continue to read and give support for this fic, it means so much to me. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter and will leave me a comment letting me know what you think of it.
> 
> Also, any mistakes in this are entirely mine as I no longer have a beta.

  
At first, all Sansa could see was small slivers of unfocused, bright light. She was quick to scrunch her eyes closed against the burning intrusion, coming to the conclusion that the effort of opening her eyes wasn't worth the piercing pain doing so caused her. Her head ached almost as badly as the first time she had over-imbibed on summer wine after the battle of Winterfell. It had been a feeling she was loathe to re-experience, hating the way it made her read too much into lingering glances, hating how foolish her actions from the night before had made her feel the next morning, hating the way it had made her perfectly crafted control crack, ever so slightly. Thinking of Winterfell and feasts caused the cogs in Sansa's mind to begin slowly turning again, to begin recounting the events that had led her to this moment. It wasn't long before she suddenly realised the reality of her precarious predicament. 

 

Her eyes snapped sharply open at the realisation, the stabbing in her skull be damned.

 

Disregarding the roiling in her belly at the movement of the cart she had been placed into as best she could, Sansa began surreptitiously taking in all she could of her surroundings, turning her head slightly towards the noise of the two men murmuring on her right side. Closing her eyes until they were only slits in case one of the men turned to check on their hostage, Sansa could just make out the rough shape of the two men sat above her, one blond and the other with dark, long and lanky hair. They were too engrossed in conversation with one another to take much notice of the captive they currently had bundled up behind them, so Sansa took a good look at them, determined if- _when_ , she got out of this, to make sure they saw the Queen's justice they rightly deserved for their treason.

 

Sansa knew what she must do, knew she couldn't let these men take her to whoever had hired them. _The one on the left looks like he's seen at least fifty name-days, I could surely outrun him without issue. But the younger one, could I..._?  mentally shaking herself at her rush of uncertainty, and knowing that the men would only be distracted for so long, Sansa tried moving her body slowly and silently towards the end of the cart only to feel intense, overriding panic as she swiftly realised that while her mind was active, her body most certainly was not. Her limbs were heavy and unmanageable, unwilling to listen to the will of her mind as she practically begged her body to just _move,_ to escape while this rare opportunity remained open to her. And yet, it didn't matter how much her mind screamed and railed against her, her body still remained inpassive in the face of her pleading, her legs still refusing to move even the slightest inch.

 

Sense eventually returned to her as Sansa realised that these symptoms were likely only temporary, a side effect of whatever had been used to incapacitate her, that surely they weren't permanent... at least, that's what she told herself, to help keep the panic at bay as best she could. _Whoever they are taking me to wouldn't want me crippled, what could they have to gain through that? My value as a hostage would decrease dramatically if they took such action,_ she argued with herself, having quickly decided that to be the aim of this little scheme.

 

Eventually Sansa was able to force herself into focusing on her other senses, and once she did she she soon noticed the biting cold that had already seeped through her thin frame despite the itchy cape they had careless thrown over the lower half of her long body. Eventually the burning bitterness of the wind was all she could focus on, and she couldn't help distantly chastising herself for removing the thick, luxurious cape she had worn most of the evening before taking her drink. _Wouldn't it be something,_ Sansa realised, _if I froze to death before they can enact this scheme they're planning? What an irrelevant end that would be to a turbulent life. Likely I'd be the only Stark to freeze to death South of the Wall._

 

It didn't take long for the dark, bloated looking sky to begin lightening, and despite the obviously early hour Sansa neither heard the chirping of birds or the scurrying of wildlife in the woods beside the dirt path her guards were following. The only noises audible to her was the continued nattering of her captors and the heavy footfalls of the horses that pulled her further and further away from home, and most importantly, away from her men. She couldn't help the overriding feeling of fury that grew within her while a small part of her mind continually begged her to succumb to the feeling of helplessness the gag in her mouth and restraints around her wrists and slim legs engendered within her. _I promised myself I wouldn't ever be weak or vulnerable again._ It wasn't long after that thought came to her that the familiar tell-tale sting of tears was felt in her eyes, but she refused to succumb to them, viciously ensuring they would not fall as she dug her sharp nails into the soft meat of her palm, hard enough to draw blood. It didn't take long for Sansa to assess her situation and realise the helplessness of it, while also realising this ride still offered her a unique opportunity.

 

Littlefinger had always told her knowledge was power, and of all the lessons he had instilled within her, that was the one she still believed in most. And her current situation, while hopeless in some respects, still remained advantageous in others. The men clearly thought her still incapacitated by whatever concoction she'd drunk, and as such, this was a ripe opportunity to eavesdrop and hopefully gain important intelligence on her enemy and whatever they had planned for her. Something she was not going to squander by acting like the helpless child she had once been, back in King's Landing.

 

"I daresay we'll be there before tomorrow daybreak if you put your foot down, Orrel," spat one of the men before chugging something down from a large animal skin. He burped openly as he finished, wiping a rough hand across his mouth as he threw the now empty skin aside.

 

"The wolf bitch is knocked clean out thanks to the potion Galf brought. We have plenty'o time to get there."

 

"Aye, we might have time man, but I don't want to be the one to explain to her why we was late with the girl, do you?" Responded the younger of the two men.

 

The pair were quiet for some time after that, and Sansa couldn't help focusing on the two small shreds she'd been able to gleam from the short interlude. _Wherever they're taking me cannot be far from Winterfell, surely?_ She might not know how long she'd been unconscious, but Sansa was fairly certain it couldn't have been for many hours. Certainly no more than two, maybe three turns. She knew how uncomfortable lying prone in one position could be, hours of being tied down and dreading the inevitable return of Ramsay to her chambers during their short lived marriage vaguely returning to her. No, it hadn't been long. Wherever she was traveling couldn't be more than a day away, maybe two depending on how quickly they rode.

 

And most importantly, who she was traveling to was a woman. _What could they want? Who could I have wronged so badly that they would wish to do this?_

 

They chatted for some time more, but there was no other information of importance to Sansa in their conversation, and as such, her mind began to drift, returning to the revellery of her coronation. It had been everything she had ever dreamed of as a young girl, and yet, the event had been devoid of all joy for her, her feelings strangely hollow without the presence of those she loved beside her to take part in the experience with her. Sansa pondered on that for a while, acutely aware that her limbs still remained outside of her control.

 

Of course, she should have been paying more attention, as during her repeated plea's to her body she found herself startled by a deep, hoarse yell from one of the men.

 

  
"She's awake, the Stark bitch is awake!" The younger man indicated, voice pitched high while his hands flapping towards her body twitchily as his eyes widened rapidly, making him look rather half-witted in the crisp, early morning light.

 

"Well do something!" The other man ordered, his flabby hands keeping tight hold to the reins of the horses even as his spine spine straightened and his shoulders raised almost up to his ears.

 

"Like what?" The blond one wondered, panic creeping even more evidently into his tone with each moment that passed as he looked to his partner for help.

 

"Move out my way lad," the gruff man huffed as he roughly deposited the reins to his partner. He then began laboriously climbing into the back of the cart, breathing harsh at the exertion before looming above Sansa as he considered her for several, tense moments.

 

She managed to get quite a good look at the heavy jowls on his face, the beady, dark, rat like eyes almost hidden in his doughy folds of his face and the wild, unkempt beard he had before his heavy fist landed hard on the side of her head, stunning her. Sansa's blinked her eyes dazedly, the force of the blow causing her to crack her head against the bottom of the cart before she saw that fist raise once again, and this time when it connected with her face, she felt herself slipping into unconsciousness, ready to be greeted by the darkness once more.

 

\--------------------------

 

When Sansa next woke, it was to the dubious comfort of a thin, itchy pallet beneath her body, and a pounding in her temples likely stemming from the blow she had earlier received. Hissing at the pain that opening her eyes engendered, Sansa's hand rose quickly to shade her face from the glow of a flame burning low on the candle beside her. The relief such a small act caused flooded through her as she realised that her immobility had indeed been the result of whatever her wine had been laced with, and not because she had somehow been crippled in-between those two moments of consciousness. A part of her felt vague guilt at the relief not being crippled brought her, making her think of how Bran must have felt, young and broken as he had once been when he'd first realised that he would never be able to walk, run, or ride again.

 

Rising gingerly to avoid making her head spin any worse than it currently was, Sansa sedately made her way towards the single high casement in the room. Looking out, she couldn't discern much, but was relieved to see the snowy grounds and woods surrounding the building. _I'd bet my best horses that were still in the North_ , she concluded, a hint of relief seeping into her at the realisation. And yet, with that realisation came several hard questions she had no way yet of answering. 

 

She finally had all the confirmation she needed that her plotters were from the North, for there was no way she was currently in the South. Sansa knew that they had no snow. That, coupled with the Northern accents of her abductors was all the verification she needed. Her chest throbbed painfully as she fully contemplated the realisation. _So much for loyalty,_ a cruel, petulant part of her snapped as she slowly made her way to the door, checking the lock despite the inevitability of what she would find there.

 

Turning away from the barred entrance, it was then that Sansa noted the plate of cold food and wine that had been left out for her on a low table. Despite the dryness of her mouth and the growing ache in her belly, she turned away from the offering, not willing to take any sort of chance in her current surroundings. Sitting down heavily on the bed, she once again considered her current predicament and what that now meant for her. While she doubted her abductor would go to the trouble of removing her from Winterfell if they only meant to poison her, she refused to touch anything here until she had some grasp on the situation she was currently facing. _Who knows what their plans are?_ Sansa fretted, her hands twitching with the need to hold her needle within them, to feel some measure of security in the familiar. 

 

It soon struck her, _what would Tyrion do in this situation?_ She had heard of his abduction by her mother at the time of course, and had later learned of the conditions he'd been kept in while she had been ensconced in the Eyrie. Back then she hadn't thought much of her one time husband's plight, but now it occurred to her just how untenable his situation must have truly been. _Had he remained defiant in the face of my mother and aunt? Or had he faltered, believing himself to be abandoned by those who were meant to keep him safe?_ Sansa didn't know much of the situation, but she knew that his eventual return to King's Landing had been down to his own quickness of mind. Sansa found herself feeling mildly disappointed in herself that she hadn't asked him about that time when she'd had the opportunity. Such information might have come of use to her now. 

 

The more she thought of that time, the more her memories returned to her regarding that situation. While she didn't know the particulars of what had occurred, many had gossiped about the man Tyrion had returned with, and how he had managed to win him to his side right at the moment when all must have seemed hopeless. Tyrion had used his influence to win Bronn to his cause, and as such, Sansa knew what she herself would likely need to do if she were to ensure her own survival.

 

It didn't take Sansa long to realise what Tyrion had done with Bronn, what she herself must do if she were to survive. She would need to appeal to someone here, to anyone who might be turned or tempted to sympathise with her plight. _God's, I'd even be willing to take aid from someone who would rather bet on me than my enemy,_ she realised as Bronn crossed her mind. _Yes, that would be far from the worst thing._

 

She knew that the fact she still lived must mean she had yet to serve her purpose, and God's willing, she'd be able to buy help from someone, or perhaps even charm them, if the situation called for it. She knew she was desirable, and while she might have been foolish once, Sansa was a fool no more. She had noted the looks the men at her coronation had given her, knew she could use that to her advantage, if that was the only choice that remained open to her.

 

Rising from the low bed, Sansa began pacing the short length of the chilly room, her mind uneasy at the thoughts running through it, making her stomach twist painfully. She couldn't help the slew of faces from the coronation that came to her, faces of the men she'd caught covertly leering at and admiring her, or openly and unabashedly in some cases. 

 

Not long before she'd left for King's Landing all those years ago, her mother had taken her aside and spoken apprehensively of how she was soon to become a woman, and what that would likely entail for her. Among the many pieces of information her mother had imparted to her that day, one was the assertion of how once Sansa was grown she would likely find herself the object of open appreciation among men, how she would be viewed as something to admire. At the time Sansa hadn't thought that to be a bad thing, but then she'd never imagined it would be anything like the many intrusive glances she had received over the years, however none so openly and brazenly as those thrown at her during her coronation and the feast thereafter. 

 

Admiration in a man's gaze wasn't something new to Sansa, indeed, she had often seen it in Littlefinger as he looked upon her, more so after the Battle of the Bastard's when he'd thought her securely held in his grasp once more. Unless she was terribly mistaken, Sansa would daresay she'd even seen such a look in Tyrion's eyes a time or two, especially when he thought her unaware of his appreciations. The difference was, Littlefinger's gaze, just like the unwanted gazes of all of those other men did nothing except make her feel unclean, made her body prickle uncomfortably at the realisation that she may as well be nothing more than a haunch of meat for all the care they gave to whether or not such lascivious looks were welcomed. 

 

The gazes she'd caught Tyrion bestowing upon her was another matter entirely. The few times she'd seen his eye turned towards her it was always with a softness and an overall appreciation of her for more than just her comely appearance. While the looks of other men made her want to recoil, Tyrion's regard engendered a soft, fluttery feeling in her belly while also pulling forth a warm pink glow that lightly dusted her cheeks. It was a look she'd caught him giving her less and less as the date for her departure from King's Landing had drawn nearer. The thought caused Sansa to feel like a heavy weight was settling deep in her chest, almost knocking her breathless. She soon began the process of banishing the encroaching thoughts from her mind, reminding herself of the promise she'd made as she left the South behind that last time. _I said I'd give those childish fancies up, didn't I?_ The uncompromising part of her remembered. _I have people to protect. I need to do whatever I can to escape, even if that means fluttering my lashes and using my charms on one of the odious, traitorous men here._

 

Still, Sansa acknowledged as she huffed to herself and sat down again heavily in frustration. _It doesn't mean I have to be_ happy _about it._

 

\--------------------------

 

She didn't know how long she had been sat there contemplating, for all Sansa was aware it could have been several hours or several minutes since she had sat upon the bed and began measuring all the available courses of action left open to her. During her deliberations she had found herself snatching hold of a vague, shimmering outline of a plan that seemed promising. Sansa had clung to it, turning it this way and that in her mind until it eventually began to refine and reform into something that had some hope of her succeeding in escaping from her captors clutches unharmed. Secure in her plan, Sansa rose slowly from the bed, taking several large strides towards the arched doorway and taking only a moments pause to compose herself before she began slamming down hard against the solid wood of the old door with her fist.

 

Sansa didn't know how long she stood before the low doorway knocking but surmised it must have been for some time, having been forced to swap hands as the redness grew deeper and more apparent against her knuckles, and yet Sansa refused to stop, her dedication to the plan unwavering. Eventually the disturbance must have vexed whoever guarded her door, for her fist was raised and ready to knock again when the door opened swiftly before her and she found herself presented with the cherry red, irate face of a man who could only be ten or so years older than herself, who looked less than pleased at the sight of her before him, fist still held aloft.

 

"What do you want?" Her guard gritted out, pushing his heavy frame just inside the doorway as if to stop her from escaping while his hand moved to place itself against the dagger he wore openly on his hip.

 

 _As if I'd make such a stupid move,_ Sansa thought scornfully, careful to keep her features schooled in a blank expression.

 

"I wish to speak to whoever is in charge," Sansa stated, relieved that her tone was even and firm. "I think it's time that I discuss the matter at hand with them and see if an arrangement can't be struck."

 

And then the man had the audacity to laugh at her, and not a small chuckle either, but a loud, sneering laugh that made her think of a stuck pig. While Sansa couldn't control the reaction of her body that heated her face, she did succeed in keeping her face impassive and her stature rigid by biting down hard on the inside of her cheeks to stop the palpable anger she felt from showing on her face.

 

"I think you're misunderstandin' who holds the power here, _your grace,_ " the repellent man announced, ending his sentence with a mock bow. "She'll come to you when she's ready, an' not a moment before."

 

"I think you'll find that a compliant captive is much less of a headache than a non-compliant one. You can either pass my message onto your master," Sansa looked pointedly at him then to assure his attention, ensuring her disgust was known before refastening the unreadable facade she'd perfected during her time with Ramsay onto her features. "Or I can make things very uneasy for you. I doubt that she would appreciate you keeping messages from her and deciding what is and isn't important on her behalf. I suspect she would like it even less after I express just how _attentive_ you have been to me also. I'm presuming that she told you not to open this door under any circumstances, didn't she?"

 

Seeing his face pale to the colour of curdled milk and his small eyes widen to almost twice their size, Sansa knew that she had successfully hit her mark. Clearly whoever was in charge wanted to keep her isolated from her guards, if she had to guess then Sansa supposed this woman likely feared that if the guards began building a rapport with her then they were at risk of turning against whatever plan her captor wished to use her for. _Clearly she doesn't hold much trust in her men. Surely that's something I can use to my advantage once the other pieces of my plan are in place._

 

After staring at her for several moments more, the guard slowly backed out from the entrance, slamming the thick door closed so violently that it shuddered in the doorway for several moments. This was soon followed by a slew of expletives that would have had the girl Sansa once was blushing profusely. Feeling steadier after taking some form of action, Sansa sat back onto the thin bed once again as she settled in for the wait ahead, crossing her hands demurely in her lap while she considering the details of her next move.

 

\--------------------------

 

The sun had already began its descent by the time Sansa finally heard the large door to the chamber slowly creak open. She refused to stay seated, wanting to face her abductor in as much a position of power as she could. Sansa often towered over the men in her acquaintance, and as such whoever this woman was Sansa hoped such an effect would be achieved here also. Consequently, Sansa had the perfect view to observe her adversary as they made their way further into the room, and they were... not who Sansa had been expecting.

 

They stood there, each woman gazing back at the other for several seconds before Sansa broke the tense, anticipatory silence, barely able to keep the vicious anger she felt at bay. Despite her best attempts at blankness, her tone still remained clipped as she spoke.

 

"Of all those I suspected of transpiring against me, I never would have thought you were the instigator of this madness," Sansa spat brusquely. "What harm could I have possibly done to you to deserve such treachery, Lady Barbrey?"

 

Barbrey Dustin gave Sansa a considering look, tilting her head slightly in a cold, birdlike manner as she openly judged Sansa, one eyebrow rising slightly as their eyes met. Despite Sansa's unusual height, to her annoyance Lady Dustin still managed to be a fraction taller than her, and as such seemed to look down her nose upon Sansa with barely concealed scorn before eventually deciding to answer the question that had been put to her.

 

"It isn't the harm that you caused, ignorant child, but a debt that remains owed to me by your kin," Barbrey revealed, tone steely and eyes narrowed as she stared intensely at the younger woman. "In truth, I tolerate you much better than I would have felt possible, much easier than I ever could your brothers. But then, you did do me a great service in killing that bastard Ramsay, even if you were unaware of it at the time."

 

Sansa found herself perplexed at the older woman's words, and unwilling to enter into a conversation about her family with this woman she had thought an ally, she instead chose to guardedly reply, "I do not understand what debt you're referring to, nor what you mean by a great service," Sansa admitted grudgingly. "But I do know that when an oath of fealty is sworn to another, the one to break it risks the wrath of the God's. If you wish for an example of that, look no further than at what happened to the Bolton's and the Frey's after they betrayed my brother." _And what will happen to you for betraying me,_ went unsaid, but Sansa could tell that the message was clear as Barbrey's dark eyes narrowed and turned even colder against her despite the slight upturn of her lips into a distortion of a smile.

 

"It's... _intriguing_ , seeing you now," Lady Dustin spoke sedately as she began widely circling Sansa, the folds of her dark, heavy skirts making swishing sounds as she moved slowly around her at a measured pace. "For all everyone calls you a Stark, you remind me so much of your mother when she was your age. More beautiful perhaps, but still. There is no mistaking your Southron heritage." 

 

The comment made something rattle uncomfortably in Sansa's chest. Usually when people compared her to her mother it was meant as a compliment, and yet... The distaste in which Lady Barbrey said the words to Sansa was almost palpable. It reminded Sansa of the long months when she was kept hostage at King's Landing, of the tones in which Cersei would refer to her father and of the North. The distaste was something she was too much familiar with, and it set her whole body on edge to hear these same tones here in the North. _It seems no matter where I go, one of my parents will always be unpalatable to those who will grasp at any reason to hate me._ The thought made Sansa's vision sway slightly, and she felt her unreadable facade begin to crack under the pressure. _Take control of yourself,_ she commanded herself forcefully. _You're stronger than the spiteful words of a traitor._

 

And what might my mother have to do with this?" Sansa wondered tonelessly, the only hint to her inner rage the red hue spreading itself across her nose and cheekbones. _By the God's, what could my mother ever have had to do with this vile, wretched woman?_

 

"She has more to do with matters than she should. I presume you are aware that before marrying your father she was engaged to your uncle Brandon?" Finally Barbrey was before Sansa once again, but this time she did not turn to fully face her, instead choosing to remain in profile so that only half of her countenance could be discerned, the other half hidden in the darkness of the room. Even so, a hint of melancholy was plain to read in the parts of Barbray's lightly lined face that was open to Sansa's view. "Had things been different and my father had gotten his way, I would have been wedded to your father after Brandon was wed to Catelyn Tully. You might have been mine, if not for Brandon's death." Lady Dustin turned away fully from Sansa then, making her way briskly towards the chamber door.

 

"I don't understand-" Sansa began before being quickly cut off as Lady Dustin turned to face her once again.

 

"Brandon never wanted to wed her, but alas... what young people want matters little, a lesson you've surely learnt by now. I doubt that either Tyrion Lannister or Ramsay Snow were the husbands you once dreamed of." She said snidely, her cruel eyes focused on Sansa to view her reaction to the unwarranted words.

 

"You know nothing of me or my marriages," Sansa responded icily, voice harsh as she looked fixedly at this woman who could so easily and undeservedly lump Tyrion in with that monster. "When my men find you, you'll pay dearly for your treachery. Surely you must know that?" She wondered, voice exuding a confidence she didn't currently feel.

 

"You're either very brave or very foolish child, to be making such bold threats to me when I'm the one who has all the advantage," Lady Dustin advanced, a hint of amusement in her tone that made Sansa feel positively incensed.

 

"Don't make idle threats you don't yet intend to follow through on, Lady Dustin. If you wanted me dead, you wouldn't have gone to the effort of bringing me here." Where here might be Sansa didn't know, but she was certainly had some promising suspicions about the location the longer the conversation lasted.

 

"That much is true," Dustin acknowledged, a frown marring her face as if it pained her to admit the fact. "If you cooperate with me and be a good girl I might be persuaded to release you to your brother, for a handsome ransom of course. But if you make things difficult?" Lady Dustin tutted then, head tilting slightly as she looked Sansa in the eye. "Well, plans can always change," she finished darkly, countenance as sinister as her tone.

 

"Speaking of plans, you still haven't told me your reasons for enacting this one," Sansa prompted the older woman, refusing to be intimidated by the very clear threat leveled at her.

 

"And why should I?" Dustin countered quickly, tone snappish as she rolled her eyes at Sansa before taking another step towards her.

 

 _Careful Sansa_ , a voice suspiciously like Tyrion's reminded her. _Play the game safely, play the game smartly. That's the way you've survived._

 

"You said your actions are due to a debt my House owes you. Surely I deserve to know why you and your men so easily turned against me, if indeed it isn't down to my own actions? All I've ever wanted to do is serve the North," Sansa tried again, making herself appear young and unsure as she lowered her eyes, hunched her shoulders and bit her lip lightly in the face of the older woman before her.

 

"In truth girl, this plan was set in motion long before you became Queen. I am merely fulfilling my role in a plan that was too tempting to resist," Lady Dustin revealed, in a tone Sansa was sure was meant to mollify her, but merely made her irritated instead.

 

She looked up at the older woman then, mind piqued at the implications and unwilling to let this potential opportunity for information go unexploited. "It seems you're the one taking all the risks. What in all of Westeros could be worth enough to you that you'd accept such danger to yourself and your men when my brother hears of what you've done? Surely revenge isn't worth your life?" Sansa tried to appeal to her, but whatever softness had fleetingly taken over Barbrey Dustin was gone in an instant, again replaced with the haughty woman who had first entered the chamber.

 

Dustin chuckled at Sansa's words, shaking her head slightly before answering honestly, "My life isn't the one at risk here girl. I'm not the one locked away in enemy territory." Walking towards where her untouched meal sat, she turned to Sansa, exasperation clear in her face as she took a sup of wine and a small bite of each of the foods that lay on the plate.

 

Sansa couldn't help the flush of humiliation that ran through her at the provoking look on the other woman's face. "That wasn't necessary, it's clear that you wouldn't go to the trouble of fetching me all this way just to poison me," she managed to admit with only a hint of unease in her tone.

 

"Of course not," Dustin replied calmly, "I wouldn't taint the wine or meat in such a way. If I were to kill you, it wouldn't be with such a cowardly method as poison." She finished before opening the door.

 

Sansa had almost turned away when Lady Dustin's voice breached the silence of the room once again, speaking her name. Turning to face the woman's dark silhouette stood in the entrance of the chamber, Sansa was disconcerted to discover her enemy's face hidden from view by the light spilling in from the corridor beyond the chamber.

 

"Yes?" Sansa asked, not trusting herself to say anything more at this moment, her whole body feeling drained after the encounter.

 

"To answer your earlier question, girl, surely why I'm doing this should be obvious to you. I'm doing this for the only thing worth having. I'm doing this for the North." Barbrey Dustin finished candidly before swiftly shutting the door behind her and warning the guard on duty that to fraternise with Sansa wasn't worth the punishment she would readily bestow upon them.

 

Sitting down heavily on the small bed, Sansa's mind raced as she considered all the implications in the conversation she'd just had with Lady Dustin. She didn't believe that Barbrey would let her live one more moment than she had to, no matter her words about ransoming her off to Bran if she behaved well. Letting her live would be sheer foolishness, her grip on the North would never be secure until Sansa was dead. Once Barbray felt secure in her succession as Queen of the North, Sansa knew it wouldn't be long before she joined her parents and her brothers in the grasp of the God's. 

 

She'd have to act fast if she had any hope of making it out of this situation alive. Sansa only hoped she had strength enough to do whatever must be done.

 

"Let the game begin," Sansa whispered to herself in the darkening of her prison room.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I actually had almost all of this chapter written before the new year, but the last part had me struggling. I was worried that I'd lost the "voice" of the fic, that characters didn't sound how they should etc, and just kept editing and putting it away, etc, until eventually I decided the only way to get back into the swing of things would be to post this and carry on with 'The Great Plan' as I'm now dubbing it.
> 
> About the chapter:  
> I'm guessing there might be a little bit of confusion about why this has all happened. My first draft revealed a bit too much about LD's plan and motivations. It didn't feel real to GoT to have a character basically explain all their motivations straight away for no apparent reason. I'm hoping to drop little bits of it over the course of the next couple chapters. By the time this arc is complete you should have a full explanation regarding motivations etc (well, if I do a decent job you will at any rate!) I'm planning to pull in a bit of information from the books for this, since I'm pretty certain she wasn't included in the show whatsoever. If you've any questions regarding anything in this chapter or the fic itself, I'm happy to answer them :)
> 
> The next chapter is planned to be a Jaime one! What fun that'll be, him and Brienne on the road again, that won't be awkward at all... 
> 
> Leave me a comment letting me know what you think of the chapter! Also, I was wondering what it is about my fic that appealed to you guys to read it? If you could let me know that would be great :) I'd like to know what you're enjoying, maybe what you're hoping to happen next etc!
> 
> Until next chapter guys, I promise to upload a lot quicker than last time.


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